


No Chains Shall Sully

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [33]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Building a rebellion, Crimes & Criminals, Family, Fanart, Finding a path, Love, Multi, Slavery, defeat of slavery, including some that might be NSFW, zygerrians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 74,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26084383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: After the escape from Kessel, and Ahsoka Tano’s contact with Soma Jess, former Corellian Green Jedi, Bryne Covenant is troubled by the growing loss of his Force sense. He and Ahsoka discuss whether the little-known Franza disciplines might be able to help him.Meanwhile, the Imperial Moff of Zygerria presides over a stable world that has supposedly lessened its dependence on slaves. This while Dala Ti, former Kirosian slave, continues to search for the missing Togruta colonists from the Clone War.A chance bit of information will send Bryne to investigate the possibility that all is not what it seems on that slaver’s world, while Ahsoka goes to Shili at the request of Makyo Ry and his mate, Nataa Shoshi-Ry to investigate the disappearance of a young woman. A young woman who has been selected as a spiritual leader of the Hunt-culture and by extension, the Togruta.Both of them will be drawn back together, as well as others of their Corellian cell and other allies, as all paths lead back to Zygerria—a place that both of them thought they would never return.
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano/Original Character(s), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Q’ira/Original Character(s)
Series: Rise and Fight Again [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/487091
Comments: 56
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue: The Once and Future

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [His Father’s Sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866711) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 



> Wonderful art throughout by @rebekahs-art, including some NSFW. Make sure that you go to their tumblr page—wonderful artist and great to work with! NOTE: I will warn in each chapter the NSFW occurs. Also, everybody’s an adult in this art; it takes place about six years after the Clone Wars.
> 
> Might be only a Maul cameo, but his influence is felt throughout. 
> 
> Hope that you enjoy!

Bryne smiles as his eyes track the text of the datapad. The giggles from the young woman lying against his front flow through his heart. He puts the datapad down and turns his attention to her, as Ahsoka Tano’s blue eyes shine with laughter and pure joy. 

He drinks in her face as she watches the animated antics of an Ugnaught and a Wookiee, as they fight the forces of good sense and gravity. He breathes in her joy, his Force sense practically vibrates with it.

At least for the time being. He takes in the cool mountain air of Alderaan, flowing in through the window of Sabe’s mountain cabin. A respite for Ahsoka in the early days of Fulcrum, when she had spent more time on the Mother, as the world’s people lovingly refer to it. A respite that he’d never shared with her in the two or so years that they’d discovered each other alive after the cauldron of Order 66.

**Watching Cartoons**

He shakes his head as he revels in her joy, through their bond or whatever the hell it is. Something that had come about only since they had reconnected. His eyebrows raise as something trips it, and he opens his eyes, realizing that she had paused the cartoon.

“Sorry,” he says, looking away. She moves her right hand to his cheek, the coolness of her skin centering him.

“Hey,” she asks, “you okay?”

“Never better, Runt,” he replies.

Those expressive blue windows roll upwards. “Riiiight,” she says, drawing the single syllable out.

Her fingers move back and upward on his cheek. He yelps as she grasps his ear and pulls it towards her. 

They both breathe for each other. After several moments, she rests her forehead on his, her eyes open, as always when kissing.

“Tell me the truth, Bait,” she says after another moment of staring into his eyes. 

“I don’t wanna,” he replies. “Look, love, I’m just drinking in your joy and laughter. Joy at something you didn’t experience when you should’ve, as a child.” 

Her eyes narrow. “You are so full of shit, Bryne,” she says, “this is about you. You can’t take me at my word that I want you fighting by my side, not your Force sense. Besides,” she bites the end of his nose gently, “I’m getting to enjoy Snorf and Doof with you now.”

“I know,” he breathes after a second, “I just love being in your mind. I cherish those moments when I can reach out and feel you there.” He can see that she’s waiting for it. 

He obliges. 

“Ain’t much else in here,” he finishes, tapping his temple.

She doesn’t move from where her forehead rests on his, but lifts his datapad, sending her eyes to the side to read the text. 

“Oh yeah, Covenant,” she says, “ _The Decline and Fall of Aquilonia in Corellian History_. Empty head and all.”

He feels one side of his mouth quirk upwards as she shoves him down and climbs on top of him. More practice of artificial respiration ensues. Finally, she rests her head on his chest, her breath warm on his skin. 

“You’re worried about whether or not these Franza disciplines will help you recover what you lost,” she murmurs against him. 

He is silent until he feels her teeth lance into his chest. He flips her over and pins her arms. He knows that she probably lets him. He breathes out as he reaches down and traces the definition in one arm with his lips. 

She matches his breathing, knowing that he’ll reply in his own time.

“I don’t know, babe,” he finally replies. “I don’t even remember ever hearing about the Franza. I don’t know if they’re real, much less work for something that’s already been lost. Like most of my Force powers on a regular basis. Seems like I only got my shields, the constant camouflage of the Face-Dance, and an occasional flitter of ability.”

“You seem to be able to annoy me from afar,” she says, her smile belying the words. 

“That’s a gift that keeps on giving, Runt,” he says. He is gratified by her laughter at such a lame attempt. 

“What about what manifested on Felucia, Jame?” she whispers into his ear, a half-heartbeat before she kisses it. “It seems like that might’ve been something unknown, or maybe even untapped. The fact that you projected your body in two different places at two different times without so much as breaking a sweat. The texts are clear. That’s a power that can nearly kill even masters of it.”

He nods after a moment. “I know. But I haven’t even tried to do that since then. I think that was all the Asundrance,” he says, naming an arcane power that they had battled almost a year ago. One that had threatened the very fabric of the galaxy, but had also shown him a memory of his dead master Shaak Ti.

 _Not to mention an ability to talk to her_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. He knows that Ahsoka still struggles with the loss of her own master, Anakin Skywalker. Struggles to the point that she never mentions him, even when prompted. He can see on her face when she is thinking of Anakin, or even remembering Ti and what she had taught her, as well as her Finder, Plo Koon, or her master’s master, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Maybe when we find Soma Jess, you can get her to explain what she was talking about.” She notices his expression, then smooths his forehead. “I know, Bait. You don’t trust her after she managed to nearly expose you and the Corellians’ little arrangement with the Jedi during the war. But she did help Ardalen Nath escape. Helped her find her way back to her family and both of her daughters.”

“I know,” he replies. “She mentioned Jedha to you. We’ve been hearing about some weird stuff going on in Jedha City, at the Temple of the Kyber. Hope I can keep the shielding and the fake handsomeness up, if I have to go there.”

“Who says you weren’t handsome in the first place, bud?”

“Nola,” he snarks, before moving his lips over her breasts to her giggles. Both the datapad and the holoviewer fall to the floor. The cartoon accidentally activates, leaving the animated adventures of the troublesome pair floating above them as he lifts up and allows her hands to draw him to her. 

“Wonder if I should let you be on top so that I can be sure I’ve got your undivided attention,” he grumbles. Both of them gasp, as if it was their first time again as he enters her. As they set their rhythm, she manages to find her voice. “Just keep me interested, Baa’je,” she says, her teeth clinching on his shoulder. His heart twists at the Togruta word for the nickname gained from their long ago Hunt on Shili, with its trills and other sounds he can’t quite do justice to, to pronounce it himself.

His heart continues to leap as he watches his old _Nu_ -class shuttle rise into the clear mountain air, its wings waggling. As always, he wonders when they’ll see each other again, except for the sojourns in each other’s minds.

He turns and watches as the air car with the Organa markings veers in for a landing. He smiles at the sight of Floranelles Laken, Handmaiden of Alderaan, seated next to the driver. Her crimson face lights up as she waves at him.

**The Past**  
**Sundari, Mandalore**

The New Mandalorian watches the Republic gunships float from the bright sky, almost lazily. His eyes lock on the _Gauntlet_ -class assault ships that accompany them. He breathes out, fighting to keep his heartbeat calm. He feels someone watching him, he manages to keep from turning as he hears murmuring. 

Sander Malika doesn’t have to turn. The pair doing the murmuring walk up next to him. Gar Saxon and Rook Kast don’t bother concealing their smirks at him. He realizes that they are looking at his hands. 

His hands that have never known the feel of a blaster butt in them. His hands that are now shaking. He shoves them in the pocket of his expensive business suit. 

Sander shifts his attention from the two mercenary ingrates and closes his eyes for a moment. He walks up to the figure standing slightly ahead of them, his hands clasped behind his back, the hood covering his black and red features, but more importantly, the burning red and yellow eyes. His eyes track down to the double-handed cylinder hanging from the right side of his belt.

He stands next to him, waiting, so that the intense, controlled fury that is this man won’t be directed at him. 

Only at the Jedi who is supposedly coming with his clone troopers, along with that traitorous d’kuht Bo-Katan Kryze.

“This is all wrong,” the voice whispers, the tone even, the voice’s timbre sounding like it comes from the lowest level of the underworld. He manages to keep any sign that his blood has run cold. 

“That’s not Kenobi coming,” Maul says. “Someone much younger. More inexperienced.”

“Will it matter, my lord?” Sander asks. “We’ll still beat them,” he says with what he knows is false bravado. There is a roaring noise as beskargam-clad figures rise, their jetpacks sparking against the darker hues of this part of the city, as they move towards the docks and their entrances to the open air.

He feels a spike of something like amusement from the figure. “Really, Chancellor? We? I don’t see your armor. I don’t see your Rising Phoenix taking you up to join the battle.”

Maul turns to him and fixes the full gaze of those intense eyes—eyes that tell of the force of that anger, its intensity. Sander still has enough empathy that a lifetime of avarice and self-interest to note that there appears to be other emotions in those eyes. 

Grief and pain. Loss even. Just for an instant. He blanches as Rook comes up behind him. “We can outfit this darmanda, my lord,” she says in her soft voice, using the word for one who is no longer considered Mandalorian. Sander can definitely detect the scorn in her voice. Scorn that he’d felt even when her naked body was on top of his, as her nails tore into his chest.

“My lord,” Sander starts, “I am but a simple businessman. I leave strategy and tactics to others more skilled at such.”

There is a brief sound from Maul. A laugh cut off before it fully forms. “Never you mind, Lady Kast,” he says. “I need him right where he is, cowering even, for his part in my plan.” He jerks his head. Kast gives Sander one last look of contempt. He smiles in return at her and blows her a kiss, the action of a man who knows he’s protected. 

Sander breathes out. When he’d first become Almec’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, he’d known who was holding the Prime Minister’s leash. He’d welcomed it, knowing that anyone who could unite the disparate crime syndicates into one collective, could bring profits to anyone in his shadow. 

Even if he himself cared nothing for credits or other forms of currency. 

_No_ , Sander corrects himself. _There is one form that he cares about._

Power. Raw unadulterated power. 

Sander can only hope that his obsession with the Jedi will keep Maul from discovering his own maneuverings. 

His eyes are drawn upward as the sound waves accompanying the multicolored puffs of missiles and energy bolts exploding in the air. Sander starts to feel wind on his face from bursts now occurring on the dome and other docks. 

Through it all, Maul remains unmoved. “I guess it will soon be time to face the Jedi whelp they’ve sent as saber fodder for me,” he muses. “Maybe I can convince her…” He cuts off.

Sander sees his eyes narrow as they focus on one particular object that has joined others in detaching from the Republic and rebel craft. 

One that has no telltale stream of a jetpack behind it. 

Maul turns. “Soon. I’m going to wait for the Jedi. Have you transferred the credits as I’ve instructed?”

Sander hopes that the involuntary shudder he gives isn’t apparent to Maul. He closes his eyes against the sudden vision of him rising in the air, an invisible vise on his throat, as Maul’s double bladed, ancient weapon, slices him in half.

He starts and snaps his eyes open as he imagines just an impatient caress of his throat from that ghostly vise. “Yes, my lord,” he manages. “One hundred million from the Treasury.” He holds up a credit chip. 

Maul nods. “Good. That should assuage the other members of the Collective, for their support of Mandalore’s, ah, sovereignty.”

Sander holds the chip out. Maul shakes his head tightly. “No.” He pulls a small velvet drawstring bag from a waist pouch. Sander recognizes the seal of Mandalore on it. “Keep it with these items. All of them are of equal import to my plans. You and your unknown finder have done well. Keep them safe, but where I can get to them.” He stares at Sander, allowing another hint of his windpipe closing. “Pray that I don’t hear about them from others.”

With that, as Sander takes the bag gingerly, Maul whirls and stalks away, the noise of his mechanical legs cutting through Sander’s hearing.

Sander opens the bag, and drops the two items in his hand. He nods as he stares at them, wondering at their meaning to Maul. 

It is the slightly larger of the two items that draws his attention. A small stoneware jug, its opening sealed with both a wooden cork and some sort of wax. There is a rough design on the side. A human or near-human female dressed all in red, with pale white skin. He starts as a flash of otherworldly green light appears in the figure’s eyes. Bright green, changing into a mist that flows upward. 

It touches him, then disappears almost instantly. 

As if he wasn’t worthy. 

Sander wonders if he’d imagined it, as well as about the vague familiarity of it. He places it back in the bag, pulling out another symbol, a stone triangle with a circle overlapping slightly in the middle. A circle with representations of several large wolflike creatures chasing each other around the circle. 

He pulls the stone closer, so that he can focus on the creatures themselves and their tiny face. The eyes of the creatures are red and black alternating jewels. His hand moves over some sort of odd, raised facial markings on each animal’s profile. Unlike the jar, he feels nothing.

His aide walks up and bows. Without a word, the functionary hands him a small object. An object purloined from a small compound during the strife of the Shadow Collective’s takeover. A compound that housed a group of Unwanteds from among the clans. He smiles at the small beskar mythosaur. A device that his partner had told him it could hold untold power in the galaxy. 

If one could find the other two pieces of the puzzle. His mind focuses on the face of the woman, a high-cheekboned, pale face with accompanying pale blue eyes. Eyes that stared at him with just a tiny bit of a reddish-gold hue that flashed. Mesmerizing eyes under graying red-blonde hair. Her figure clad in a dark green hooded robe, over a sand-colored overtunic and tabard combination. Garments familiar in the galaxy as a whole, but not associated with this woman. A woman from his past, usually dressed in the near-indestructible armor of this world. He can only hope that the woman is dead. She’d found both of the items in the bag, even though he’d only asked for the crock that was apparently valuable to Maul. In return, he’d arranged for the theft of the mythosaur.

And had kept it for himself.

He shakes his head. He looks up and sees that the enemy is about to land. His eyes fix on that figure that had leapt from the ship without any propulsion assistance. He pulls his macrobinoculars and focuses on her as she strikes the surface of the dock. 

Instead of splattering with the impact, she stands straight, her two blue energy blades helping slow her progress, before immediately starting to deflect blaster bolts. 

He stares at her face, the face of an impossibly young Togruta woman. A face with all of the determination of one willing to put their head through a wall. 

He places the objects into the bag and then into his pack, slinging it. 

He puts his left hand into his pocket, feeling the two objects within. He ignores the syringe, circling his fingers around the handle of a very small, thin dagger. 

Sander places his right arm around his aide, in what he hopes feels like an familiar gesture. Both of them are of a similar height and build. He draws him into follow him into the building as the sounds of battle increase in the city.

Sander Malika can only hope that he can escape Maul’s reach as he pulls the blade from its concealment.


	2. Farewells and Hints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.” T.S. Eliot

Dala Ti flips the library screen to another page once again. One more collection of multicolored lines sears into her vision and her memory. She closes her eyes, letting the lack of sensation seep through her mind; the quiet calms her unsettled mind. 

She had been in the Royal Library of Alderaan every day for the past two months. She’d enjoyed the research much more than she thought she would, searching trade lines and genetic indicator maps for hours on end. 

Hoping for some sign of her people. The fifty thousand or so Togruta colonists of a peaceful world, much like this one. As always when she thinks of Kiros, she sees the defining moment of her life flash before her eyes, from another, much less beautiful world in Wild Space.

An undefinable, unpleasant smell reaches the center of her brain, even in the calm of the library. A smell that she’d never been able to excise from her brain, even though she’d only been at the slave processing facility for a few weeks. 

The inevitable next cycle in her memory occurs—a cycle even less pleasant than the smell. A memory of plummeting, her stomach staying in the facility, as the deck of the Republic light cruiser rushes to meet her body. She can feel the sense of helplessness; she still envisions her body broken on the deck, before it slid off in the maneuvering that occurred after the ship left. Her corpse would have been never found. 

But the story’s climax wasn’t written like that. She remembers the sudden stop, but not one against hard steel. Strong, but comforting arms had enveloped her, arms attached to a fifteen or sixteen year old girl of her species. One who’d leaped without fear to the deck, as she’d been directing their rescue only seconds before Dala had lost her footing. 

Dala smiles as she remembers the cheeky, but warm smile the young woman had given. Her sense of smell also remembers another defining scent for her. The clean, with the barely detectable, spicy scent of the young woman. Their encounter had been brief, only a few seconds as the Jedi had put her down, passing her off to a clonetrooper to be taken below, before she was off again, directing the rescue of Dala’s fellow Kirosians. 

She’d heard the name of the young Jedi, but hadn’t been able to find her and thank her for her life. 

At least until she had been able to return the favor, a few years after the escape from Kadavo, and help a young Alderaani doctor save the young woman’s life from the effects of a docilizer spray being used on another collection of Togruta prisoners. 

A collection that Dala had voluntarily joined, in an attempt to free them from their Imperial captives, before they were slaughtered—or at least allowed to die—by the Imperials, in the name of research for the Deathtrooper project—their genetic material harvested. 

Genetic material that gave Togruta their preternatural senses, even though only a small percentage of the population, those born in the wilds, could still use them. 

She’d found herself in that predicament because of those few seconds in the Jedi’s arms on the deck of a Republic warship.

At that moment, as Ahsoka Tano had set her down, she’d decided that she would never work as an architect again. She had pledged her life to finding others languishing in slavery. That last project had brought her to Alderaan after a force of Alderaani marines had effected an evac of the remaining prisoners—after she, Ahsoka, and a tall, snarky Naboo had destroyed the genetic material of the Togruta and the Republic clonetroopers—honoring their lives and making their sacrifices less in vain. 

Another moment in her life that had defined her. A moment that had brought her to this world, to direct the Royal House of Organa’s surreptitious efforts to find refugees and victims of slavery. Efforts in conjunction with a certain Corellian Foundation, now run by that snarky Naboo, who’d touched Dala with her regard and fear for Ahsoka Tano’s life. 

An effort directed by the woman dressed in armor with her marines, in spite of the pulmonodes that Dala had later glimpsed when she’d seen the Queen in a gown. 

She shakes her head and turns back to the screen. Dala gives a heavy sigh, which echoes in the near empty library. The echo earns her a glare and a quiet ‘shh’ from the officious librarian who had been eyeing her every day she came into the library, as if waiting for her to suddenly scream or otherwise disturb the tranquility of the archives. 

Tranquility that was already disturbed to anyone with the sharp, sensitive hearing of a Togruta—what remained of those evolutionary senses of a hunter, for a city-dweller . 

She ignores the archivist and makes a decision. She links her datapad to the mainframe and purchases copies of what she’d been reading for these months. _It might be time to go back into the field,_ she thinks. _To a place I’ve never been, but one that had affected my life in so many ways._

Both bad and good. 

Her reverie and thoughts of field work are interrupted by a warm, but quiet voice. She looks up and sees the few other patrons of the archives rising in respect. 

“You look like someone who’s found the answer to the question of the universe’s existence.”

Dala hastily rises and starts to bow. 

Breha Organa, Queen of Alderaan holds out her hand and waves the gesture away. She moves over and sits next to Dala at her screen. Dala turns her full attention on the Queen, but is gratified by the officious archivist’s widened eyes, just before he turns and beats a hasty retreat.

“If you say so, your Majesty.” 

“Are you finding anything?”

Dala turns back and narrows her eyes at the screen. “Not really, your Majesty. Maybe I’m just finding more questions.” She draws a deep breath. “It’s difficult trying to trace people who fell off of the grid at the end of a war.”

Breha nods, her dark eyes gazing intently at Dala. She brings the dark windows over to the screen. “I know. Bail—Senator Organa has told me of your difficulties. He’s had his ear to the ground in the Senate, together with Senator Chuchi of Pantora, and Shili’s own Senator.”

The Queen raises an eyebrow at Dala’s expression, an instant before Dala can sweep the expression away. “What?”

Dala smiles slightly. “The good Senator from Shili can be challenging, Majesty.”

Breha laughs softly. “True. But both my boloball player and Riyo more than make up for her,” she says. Dala is warmed by the intimate tones that Breha uses with her, something she had never expected, but welcomed. 

“What have you found?”

“Just some disturbing migration patterns, your Majesty. Patterns that I’ve been able to track, based on genetic markers and environmental markers of a few Togruta passing through the region. I cross matched it with sporadic transport runs—shipping that had collected the information.” She takes a deep breath. “Shipping that seems to originate in one particular place.”

Breha’s dark eyes fix on hers. For the first time, Dala notices two people standing quietly behind Breha. One, a tall, redhaired woman, perhaps in her forties or fifties, Her Grace, Lady Dainet Weaselton, the Librarian of Alderaan. The de facto one-woman intelligence service of this world. A woman who’d provided Dala with invaluable access and information. 

The other is a tall, dignified older man, dressed in a black leather coat, with a silver and gold rank plaque with five purple pips on it, and tan cargo pants,. A man who could be any university professor or lawyer on casual day, until you saw his dark eyes. Eyes that had seen many things, but still retained a gleam of humor. 

Sen M’Faru, Peacekeeper-General of Alderaan. He grins at her. 

“The Chorlian Sector,” Lady Weaselton says. 

Dala nods in response. “Zygerria.”

Breha narrows her eyes. “Thin.”

“I know, your Majesty. But it’d be enough for me to poke around there.”

She notices M’Faru shift uncomfortably. Dala smiles warmly at him. “I’ve gone into dangerous territory before, Mishleh,” she says, using an ancient title for his position.

“I don’t doubt that. But I’d be responsible for your safety, Dala.”

She nods and looks at Breha. “Could I possibly contact Fulcrum?”

Breha shakes her head. “She’s resting a tiny bit, before heading off on another job. One that’s pretty critical.”

Dala tries to hide her disappointment. She knows that every moment that Ahsoka can rest is precious, with her life.

Breha gives a wry grin. “I do have someone that I can offer. Someone that’s on our world now. Resting with Fulcrum, but he’ll be here for awhile.” At those words, Dala catches Sen’s eyeroll. Breha continues. “I have no problem interrupting a layabout Corellian noble’s rest. Transfer your information to me.”

As Dala complies, she realizes that Breha hadn’t exactly forbidden her from going and investigating this small lead herself.

* * *

Daina Calanthe watches as her steward and a droid finish packing her bags. She notes that the steward had followed her instructions to the letter, packing light, as well as packing two separate kits. One, if she stayed in the flag quarters of her star destroyer; the other—the more likely need—if she would be on the surface, in the middle of the action. 

She turns away and reads her commission once again, the ancient language centering her— _‘you will take charge and command of the Circarpous IV, known as Mimban, theater of operations and ensure the submission of the populace to Imperial rule.’_ The boilerplate language had of course ended with the traditional, _‘Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your Peril.’_

The same language that had ended her Republic commissions as well. Only now, the language had a new, more final meaning. 

Final in which she would be standing against a wall, stripped of her tunic and rank, hoping and praying that the squad of conscripts facing her could hit her chest with their blasters and not her guts, and that the officer-in-charge wouldn’t take their sweet time before firing the final shot into her brain. Her eyes fall on the young Twi’lek woman who stands at the foot of the bed, watching the packing operation. She had refused the use of the servants that her hosts had supplied—servants that she wasn’t sure of their actual status. 

She hadn’t asked, as the Empire could at any time, reverse her stances on the reestablishment of the slaver Empire of the Zygerrians. Only concern over the Zygerrian’s power had allowed her to institute restrictions on slavery, after a predecessor had been caught selling decommissioned clonetroopers as slaves. A predecessor who was now the Governor of the Circarpous sector—one whose mess she was going to clean up once again. 

Of course, while her policies had created stability on Zygerria, the Empire could reverse the policies without explanation, given the need for labor to fuel the Imperial war machine. 

She closes her eyes, remembering the last time that she had been on Zygerria. Or at least the last time she had dealt with the Zygerrians. When her first capital ship command, a Venator-class star destroyer, had covered the flagship’s rescue of Togruta slaves over a hellish world known as Kadavo. 

Her secure comm signals. Without a word, the steward stops and signals the droid and the young woman to leave. 

Grand Moff Tarkin’s cadaverous features morph into existence in her room. “Good evening, your Excellency,” he says. “As you were.” She relaxes her stance only slightly. 

“You’ve received your orders for Mimban, I assume,” he intones. 

“Yes, Grand Moff,” she replies evenly. 

Tarkin narrows his eyes. “You object, Moff?”

She takes a deep breath, releases it. She inclines her head in a slight bow. “I’m honored to be selected, Grand Moff,” she replies, “however, I think this is a critical time on Zygerria. We’ve made strides in keeping the Zygerrians away from slavery, something that I believe will pay dividends in the future, as they will know their place better.”

Tarkin gives her a smile, only somewhat warmer than the polar icecaps of this world and others. “I accept your progress and your reasoning. But at some point, we may be in a shortage of labor necessary to maintain steady progress on several critical projects. Projects that the Emperor can ill-afford to lose any time on, as the preservation of the Empire could suffer. We’ll need your mind wrapping around that, as well.”

She nods, not saying anything.

“But, the Emperor needs you elsewhere, at least for a short time. Your strategic, tactical, and organizational skills are unparalleled in the Imperial forces. We think that you will be able wrap up a campaign that has been frankly languishing since the Republic fell. Many of the members of the High Command and the General Staff, believe that you are a prodigy, based on your successes from the early days of the Empire.

Daina continues to stare attentively and respectfully at him. She doesn’t remark on the oddness of being referred to as a prodigy in her mid-forties.

“Have you given any thought to who your interim will be?”

Daina takes a moment before replying. “I believe that my best choice will be Colonel-Supervisor Jadhic Sander-Calanthe.” She waits for a response. 

“Your husband? Is that wise?” Tarkin asks finally. “I seem to remember that your predecessor tried to shoot him, before you were able to prove her own corruption and arrest and execute her.” 

“Probably not,” she replies, “but he has been involved with all of my projects here. It is a critical time, as I said.”

After a moment, he nods. “Very well. I appreciate your candor, as well your selection. He will be appointed as interim Moff as soon as you depart on your new _Imperial II_ star destroyer.

Daina raises her eyebrow at this. An _ImpStar Deuce? Must be the prodigy thing._

Tarkin’s next words take any shine off of the assignment of the newest Imperial toy. 

“I can only promise you that if your husband fails, I will make sure that you are tied to the same post when I have you shot.”

She stares at the empty spot where the hologram was. It is replaced by her husband walking in unannounced. As she stares at him, she remembers when his steady gray eyes and thick head of gray hair had excited her, particularly when it was positioned above hers in bed. 

Now she only sees the ancient calculating machine behind his eyes grinding out numbers when she tells him of his new assignment. 

As he leaves, her aide walks in and smiles at her.

He starts to pull his uniform tunic off. She sighs, then shakes her head. She looks at the bed with its luggage, then at the large couch. Her eyes shift back to his now-bared, muscular form.

_I never said that I was a saint without my own vices_ , is her only fleeting thought.

Outside of the cabin, the young Lethan Twi’lek smiles and pulls a comm from her plain jumpsuit.


	3. Another Farewell, Another Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” -A.A. Milne ( _Winnie-the-Pooh_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW art alert, by the wonderful @rebekahs-art.

Meglann sighs with contentment. The exhalation helps her to calm her heartbeat from its hammering. She focuses on the sensation of the mass of hair, brown with streaks of natural blue pillowing the head resting against her lower spine. She feels soft lips running over her skin; a smirk spreads over the lips as they find the slight crease of the slugthrower scar on the left cheek of, _well, I prefer the term upper thigh_ , she thinks, her own sheepish grin painting over her face. She yelps as Dani’s teeth lance into the cheek, before the lips touch the brief hurt as well.

Meglann mourns the loss of contact as her sister-of-the-heart lifts up. It is only for a brief second before Dani lies full length on Meglann’s longer body. Meglann closes her eyes against the tears forming; she turns her face to the right in the pillow, away from Dani’s vision. She feels Dani lift her mass of dark bronze curls away from her neck and shoulders, a mass still slightly sweaty from their earlier exertions. 

She manages to keep her heartrate slow as Dani gently kisses her neck. She feels a slight bit of moisture splash on her neck. She identifies the source as Dani’s eyes, rather than her own sweat. 

Meglann concentrates only on the warmth of Dani’s skin on hers, slightly warmer than her own, from her half-Zeltron heritage. She knows that Dani’s skin is not as warm as a full-blooded Zeltron, which she likens to lying in the sun on a summer’s day on many worlds. Dani might be closer to the unseasonably warm autumn day and its noon sun shining through the port of the owner’s cabin on the _Draq’stone._

She shakes her head; thoughts like that would probably cause Dani’s empathic resonance to burble back from ‘standby’ mode, reflecting both of their emotions. She rolls over, dumping Dani on the other side of the bed with a yelp. Meglann rotates back and raises up on her elbows, looking down at her, now lying on her back. She gives Dani a brief kiss, then reaches down and pulls her left nipple into her mouth, for a brief tonguing. Just as a reminder

“You’re really evil and a bad influence on me,” she says after releasing the bit of flesh. “Here I was minding my own business, visiting a friend’s ship, before I go see the Queen with another friend. You come into the room and and start broadcasting that hoodoo. Not to mention the fact that you were wearing that little thing cut down to your possibles.”

Dani reaches over and picks up the little thing in question. She drops it over Meglann’s head. “This old rag? Just something I threw on.” Dani’s slight Corellian drawl warms Meglann’s heart, as she had fallen in love with her newly found grandmother’s world. 

In spite of all of it shortcomings. 

“Yeah. I really had to twist your arm, dear. Don’t worry. Bryne’ll text us when he gets Ahsoka on her way.”

Both fall silent as they think of that pair’s stolen moments. Stolen moments for them all, in the mythological connection from Dani’s father’s, Bryne’s, and Meglann’s grandmother’s world. A world that Nola Vorserrie had now claimed as her own. One of three for her. 

The Links of the Covenant Chain. Swordmates, lovers, friends, family—whatever the words were. A bond at least a thousand generations old, but only the second incarnation of it. An Affirmation of the Links was only sworn in any declared age of uncertainty. 

Meglann, on a whim, pulls Dani tightly to her front. She allows her tears to spill on Dani’s shoulder. She knows that tears start from Dani’s dark purple eyes, as they morph into the Modula—the indicator of strong emotion on a Zeltron. 

“I’m not ready for all of us to scatter to the four winds,” Meglann whispers. “You, mostly staying on Drall, for Ala and Jamelyn. Nola going all over the place, looking for ships and places to hide them. Even Lassa in the Outer Rim,” she finishes, naming the Pantoran pirate that had taken one of the assignments of the Tarnished Link—the Trusted Other.” She looks down, resting her forehead below Dani’s shoulder. “Ahsoka, Alderai knows where.”

Dani reaches up and starts to kiss the tears away. “I know, sweetie,” the oldest Link says to the youngest, a span of thirty-two to nineteen. “It’s hardest for me to watch Ahsoka and Bryne. They lost so much time.”

Meglann nods. “I know. Nola and I talked about it last night after dinner. There’s also the added problem of Bryne’s Force stuff.” She closes her eyes, remembering the feel of the taller Link’s embrace before she boarded her public transport shuttle.

“I wish we, like she, could convince the dumbass that we love the man, not his superpower,” Dani remarks. She looks over at her comm, checking the time. “Come on. I’ve got to get ready and go get the brats.” Meglann grins at the names for her responsibility, the Hope of her World, Jamelyn Blackthorn and Talle, the clone, _no, the daughter_ of the huge Null-class clonetrooper, Drop, and a missing Jedi Knight, Elle Jaquindo. Both visiting the Princess Royal of Alderaan. Both trying to be nothing more than little girls.

Dani pulls her up and points her in the direction of the ornate shower, giving her a slap on the ass. “Come on, Meg. We’ll conserve water. If you’re good, I’ll wash your front.”

It isn’t long before the stars are expanding in her disconnected brain; water cascades over both of them from all sides in the shower. Meglann manages to keep her footing, as she runs her fingers through Dani’s curls from where she kneels in front of her. Dani’s arms around her hips, as she tongues her, help steady her, even as she drives her insane. She hugs the woman tighter to her own body, many emotions coursing through both of their beings. Not just the ones associated with those stars. 

Later, Dani stares into her eyes as she pulls on the medium blue dress uniform tunic over Meglann’s linen shirt, sealing it all the way up, fastening the choker collar with the embroidered silver candlewick leaves. She pats it into place. Meglann closes her eyes as Dani stands on tiptoes and kisses her on the forehead, holding her lips there for a moment. Her hands move to Dani’s bare back, holding her tightly.

Dani watches from the viewport as Meglann walks with straight back and military precision to the waiting aircar, her peaked cap dropping on her tied-back curls at the precise moment that she walks into the sunlight. 

Daaineran Faygan lets the tears flow.

* * *

Irnalyn Zabrin glances at her son as the Imperial Moff turns and stalks from the room. Herjen allows a broad grin to split his purple features, the product of a half-Zeltron, half-human mother and an unknown Pantoran father. He does wait for Dorith Panteer to exit the small chamber before speaking.

“Looks like his shoulders were a little tense, abeeyeh.”

Irnalyn finally allows herself to match his grin. “Probably comes from having sold his soul to us, with all his machinations to find his daughter.” She feels her heart harden. “To possess her, rather than love her.”

Herjen nods, his own eyes soft at the thought of that daughter, now flourishing with her mother, out of Panteer’s reach, for now, with people who love her for her own sake. People who were willing to risk all to protect her from her father’s grasp. 

She feels her son’s resonance start to burble. She grins. “Go ahead, sport,” she says, “you can see if you can loosen up the set of those shoulders. It can only help our grip, if we always provide something other than the hammer.”

Herjen grins and follows Panteer from the small, comfortable sitting area. As he exits, he gives a brief, one-armed hug to the tall young woman walking in. Irnalyn rises and runs one hand through her purple hair. She reaches out both hands. 

Yelena Dao, YardMistress of the Dao-Aspeff Yards, one of the largest ship-repair concerns in the galaxy, and the true power behind Irnalyn’s grip on Panteer, reaches over and touches Irnalyn’s lips with her own purple. Irnalyn gazes at the multicolored, ever-changing eyes and bare skull of her majority-Fondorian blood, as well as the single fountaining tuft of silvered hair of her mother’s and her grandmother’s human heritage. 

Irnalyn manages to suppress her own Zeltron heritage and its projection of lust at the young woman’s physical beauty. _Not the time. Maybe later_. “This an unexpected pleasure, beautiful girl,” she says. “Unexpected, but never unwelcome, your Ladyship.”

Yelena smiles. “I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances, Mother,” she replies, using Irnalyn’s title. Mother of the Children of Nar Kanji. _M’ther u’Kanjiklub._

Irnalyn nods and guides her over to the loveseat. “Sit, love. Tell me.”

Yelena takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes. “My grandmother has received word from a slicer that she knows that there’s been some movement on a darknet channel that they’ve been monitoring.” She looks directly into Irnalyn’s eyes. “On Zygerria.”

Irnalyn says nothing, allowing Yelena to continue. “There seems to a ‘request for proposals’ to move several hundred units. Unit of ‘prime stock’ as well as units that might be ‘used for other needed tasks’.”

“Meaning that they can be used for anything. Even things that can result in their deaths.” Irnalyn rises and goes to the sideboard. She picks up a decanter and pours two glasses of a blue liquid.

Yelena nods gratefully and sips at the fiery liquor. She eyes Irnalyn thoughtfully. _Probably wondering how a Zeltron-human has developed a taste for a drink from her world._

After they’ve finished the drink, Irnalyn rises. “Let’s go for a walk,” she says. “We can talk about next steps.” Yelena places her arm in Irnalyn’s. As they move outside along the gangway connecting Imperial Center to others, Irnalyn moves closer to Yelena’s ear. “Thank you for this. I think that we’ll watch and wait. I think that there might be others that are interested in this. Feel free to let Nola and Shyla both know. I think this might be solved if there are at least three different avenues leading towards its solution.” She lifts her comm and sends a quick, one-handed text. “From what I can tell, the Moff there has been putting a good amount of roadblocks up against the traditional slave trade. This is out of the blue.”

Yelena nods. “Grandmother says that the Moff is being sent to handle something else. Her husband is the interim Moff, for an undetermined amount of time.”

“Jadhic Sander-Calanthe,” Irnalyn observes. “A failed businessman who, before the fall of the Republic, was an unknown. No electronic trail whatsoever.”

They stop. Standing in front of them is a tall, dark-skinned young woman in an Imperial fleet trooper’s uniform, who watches them through tear-dropped shaped dark eyes. Yelena sees her, smiles, then reaches over and kisses Irnalyn. “I think I’ll leave you two to your machinations. Perhaps you, Herjen, my grandmother, and I can have dinner one night?”

“We’d love that, dear,” Irnalyn answers. She allows a hint of promise to move into her eyes, a hint of the black of strong emotion. She sees Yelena’s eyes widen and her nostrils flare with the effect of the resonance. Yelena nods and and walks towards the young officer. As she passes, she stops and extends her right hand to Edan Kozume. Edan gives a tiny smile on her normally grave face and clasps the outstretched hand.

Edan allows Irnalyn’s embrace, a wariness fully present in her body. The wariness of someone living under a postponed firing squad on the hangar deck of an Imperial star destroyer. 

“I have a task for you, Lieutenant,” Irnalyn says, touching the new rank plaque on Edan’s chest. “One away from watching Dorith for me, as well as staying off of the radar of those two who think that they own you.”

Edan allows a slightly wider smile on her face as she loses herself in Irnalyn’s embrace.

* * *

The watcher takes a sip of his drink at the bar. He watches the elderly, scarred Togruta laugh warmly with one of his customers. His mind focuses on a name— _Selda_ —a name that he’d heard at least a couple of times while seated in various places during his two days before, mostly from the bartender whose wisecracking snark and beautiful face hid something much more dangerous. 

He allows himself to focus on three faces; three faces waiting on him to come home. One, a smiling woman with two small tattoos just below her left eye, waves of long purple hair, and strong, understanding blue eyes. _Much stronger than me_ , he thinks. Another, a solid little boy with a lighter version of his own dark skin and the beginnings of his prominent nose, although softened by that woman’s influence. 

The third—all her mother’s—an infant still, but with her father wrapped firmly around her tiny index finger. His daughter, named for another from his past, a child of darkness, who had come home to the light. Sacrificing herself for him, but finally, firmly in the light. Except for the two small reminders, he’s never been sure if it was an even trade. He closes his eyes, seeing her sharp, pale features, her ice-blue eyes that had occasionally started to soften when she looked at him. 

_Asajj._

His mate had never begrudged her memory, even in their darkest times. He exhales and lifts his hand to his head, brushing his hair off of his forehead. 

The watcher thinks about why he has been sitting on various hard, ass-numbing seats in this bar—ironically not named for the owner, but with another name— _Ricarda’s_. Various rumblings throughout the Outer Rim, in channels that he pays attention to, if passively. Rumblings of an embryonic nature, of loose affiliations, starting to build, if only with tiny bricks. Two separate ones, one possibly trying to move more aggressively than the other—maybe even impatiently. He had sent out a feeler, through one of his less respectable informants, who had answered one discreet call. An informant who might have blabbed more, if the watcher hadn’t given him a slight push to forget everything he’d ever heard. He would make the contact.

If only to encourage the contact and their handlers to shut the hell up and submerge again, so that he could live out his life in peace and quiet. 

Not to mention, with a life to live.

The bartender comes over with his deep-fried root vegetables. She smiles, the two jewels in her lower lip on one side of her face and her nose on the other, gleaming in the low light. He gives her a careful smile back, then drops credits on the bartop, concentrating on his food. He catches a brief burst of disappointment, but it fades as a tall human woman—close to his height—sits on the stool next to him. He glimpses a sharp-featured beauty, but with a guarded layer of snark and sarcasm behind the brown eyes, not too dissimilar from that present in the bartender’s face, but with that extra wariness. Her face lights up with laughter at the barkeep’s turning up of the flirting skills; she immediately starts the ritual in return. 

The watcher takes a bite of a fry, and smiles. He realizes he doesn’t have anything to wipe the slight bit of greasy residue away. He taps the young woman on the shoulder and points to a stack of rolled cloth napkins. She smiles, barely breaking eye contact with the barkeep, and lifts one, transferring it to her other hand, then to his. 

Before he can smile his thanks, as his hand touches the napkin, his mind is assailed by sensation. Sensation born of an offshoot of his connection to that invisible energy field. Sensations of two others, both close to this young woman. One, a distant sensation of one that he might’ve seen grow, from a distance. 

The other, the sharper sensation of one that he might’ve helped shape and grow. Grow in his own arcane power. 

The power of a Jedi Shadow. 

The watcher manages to stand, throw even more credits on the bartop. He leaves his food, making a hasty exit into the night. 

If he’d been less focused on the strange, mystical sensations, he would’ve seen a very large human male eye his hasty departure with suspicion, then get up and start to follow at a discreet distance. 

If he’d been aware, Quinlan Vos would’ve recognized a slightly different face of a member of a group of men that Vos hadn’t exactly endeared himself to in his past, with his disdain.

A man once known by a number, now by a name, as well as his earned nickname moves out. 

Drop sends a quick text on his comm, to the young woman who had been sitting next to this tall Kiffar bruiser.


	4. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer camp and royalty.

Bryne watches as Flori Laken, Handmaiden of Alderaan, laughs at something Meglann says. He smiles at both young women, listening, but his mind is light years away. 

Ahsoka’s last words to him before she boarded the _Laughing Beskad_ are at the forefront of his memory.

_I hope you find peace in your search, Bryne. Just know that I’ll be at peace with whatever you find, but it’s not about me. You’re my hunt-brother. I’ll always fight by your side—we fight our battles together._

He closes his eyes, allowing the bright laughter to move from his consciousness, but allowing the emotions to seep over him, courtesy of Flori’s resonance. Bryne searches his open mind for any reference to the word, _Franza_. Soma Jess’s words to Ahsoka had been cryptic. So cryptic that he wonders if it would be worth a trip to Jedha, to try and find Master Jess, if she was even there. 

As always, something nags at the back of his Force sense, centered around the back of his neck. Something that is always present when thinking about surviving Force users. Especially those that might’ve nearly betrayed him and Dani to the Separatists. Something that he’d only recently learned about, in an aside with Draq’ Bel Iblis, his uncle and mostly retired mover and shaker in the galaxy for Corellia.

He feels the warmth of Flori and Meglann’s emotions fade gradually. He opens his eyes, just in time to see the door close and Meglann looking wistfully at the door that the young Zeltron had just passed through. He rises and walks over next to her, then takes her in his arms. 

“You okay, Port?” he asks. He can feel her smile slightly against his shoulder at the nickname. A nickname from a time that she was a full-time diner owner and ‘auditioning’ for Ahsoka’s ‘girl in every port’ for Alderaan. 

“Yeah, Bryne,” she replies.

“About to go off on a big adventure, right? You ready for summer camp?”

He winces only slightly from her sharp punch to his ribs. He softens his words by running his lips through her hair, tied back in its regulation queue. He had felt her stiffen at his words. He pushes her away from him, but still maintains his loose grip around her back. He looks at her, his eyebrow raised, and waits. 

Meglann looks down at the toes of her polished boots. “It’s a big chance to learn,” she says quietly. His eyes narrow at the rote response. 

Bryne waits some more, busying himself by moving his left hand up and stroking her cheek gently. Giving her time.

“I’m not sure it’s the right time for me to leave for six months to a year,” she whispers, even more quietly than her last words. “I recognize the opportunity, but I think I can learn just as much with the Hells as with some fancy flying circus.” 

Bryne pulls closer again and grins against her hair, breathing in the slight vanilla scent. “I know one of their pilots from the Clone War,” he ventures. “Although they don’t know me as Covenant.” He feels her nod, as well as her forehead wrinkling slightly. _They know me by a dead name,_ he thinks. _A dead name that could get me more actually dead if it’s uttered too much_. “His name’s Garven Dreis. I think he’s a flight leader in one of the squadrons. I know that they were excellent pilots, if a bit regimented in their thinking. Not as freethinking as the Mandalorians, such as Fenn Rau’s Skull Squadron. I think Dreis and a couple of others were trying to change that, after experience in an actual shooting war that they were exposed to.”

“So why me? I’m comfortable learning chaos from the best. Plus this seems to be an idea from Sal.”

“I know. I know you’re suspicious of Sal. She may be one of the Tarnished Links of the Covenant Chain, but there’s a reason she’s the Untrusted Other. The whole Imperial Advisor, ISB wunderkind thing. Not to mention the fact that she might still have a bone to pick with my family.”

“She did turn a blaster on own her body to help Shyla escape,” she observes. She reaches up and kisses him. “Yeah, I’ve thought of all that. I do want to get more into fighters, even though I think my world is heading towards big ships. Just don’t see the reason, now. Dani’s a great pilot, so is Ahsoka. You’re pretty good, too.”

He doesn’t rise to the sharp thrust of that last. He feels her grin against his throat. “It may be your last chance. The Imps haven’t taken over Virusanji’s government yet. The Rarified Air Cavalry is still an independent planetary defense force. They are, however, getting to fly some of the Imperial fighters that are coming out. Might be valuable.”

“Long as I get to fly my A-Wing.”

He is saved from having to tell her that she’ll be getting to know the Z-95 Headhunter quite intimately, by the door opening. They both turn to the door and start to bow at the small, but powerful woman walking through the door. 

Breha, Queen of Alderaan, brushes the obeisances away, then moves towards them, taking one of each of their hands in her own. Breha looks at them; they both begin to search their consciences for any sins, real or imagined.

“So I have you two to blame for getting my Second Handmaiden all hot and bothered?”

* * *

Ahsoka laughs as the toddler makes a beeline for her. She drops her pack on the small trail from the landing field and scoops Azaada Shoshi-Ry into her arms. She breathes in the distinctive, but not unpleasant smell of a child who has been hard at work being a child of two or so. As she nuzzles the tiny lekku, a memory stabs of when Azaada had been born. The newborn lying on Bryne Covenant’s chest, her tiny fingers curling in the hair. Her hearing focuses on the noise he makes at the grasp, before relaxing. 

She remembers that she had moved even closer to him, twining her body with his, content as they lay together in the living space of the house, giving Makyo and Nataa much needed sleep. The couple had been grateful, even though it was common for everyone to sleep in the common bedspace of a Togruta huntstead or huntfast. Later, as Azaada had slept in a tiny pallet made for her, Ahsoka and Bryne had made slow, gentle love, their eyes locked on one another.

Ahsoka shakes her head at the image. She sees Makyo and Nataa looking at her with soft, knowing expressions. She rolls her eyes, an instant before a solid body, only a bit shorter than her’s, takes her in his arms, his head pillowed on her chest, careful of his baby sister. She rests her forehead against Cubreem Maashu-Ry’s as Makyo and Nataa’s adopted son hugs her tightly against him. 

She moves back in his arms, speaking in her birth-language, the trills in all registers mixing in with the words. “You’ve grown, hunter,” she says. She adds a Smirk to the words. “Soon you’ll be taller than your tiny father.” As intended, she hears a snort from the father, who dwarfs everyone in the vicinity. She sees Nataa pull closer to Makyo. Even with her adult-sized montrals, she barely comes up the top of his shoulder. 

“He’s missed his hunt-mother,” Nataa says. Ahsoka starts at the words. 

“I never knew,” she breathes. 

“He formally claimed you. You and Covenant,” Makyo adds. “If you consent we’ll hold the auguries when we can. Jedu the Ironmonger would be happy to facilitate.”

Ahsoka nods, her expression carefully blank at the mention of Jedu. “I know him,” is all she says, pushing the drunken memory of her one Ironmonger’s Feast as an adult. When she was hiding after she’d thought that her world had died.

Again.

Makyo smiles. “I know you do. Of course, I don’t know if having one inside of you once, truly counts as knowledge...”

It is only because she holds his daughter that she doesn’t move over and punch him in his broad chest. “Don’t remind me,” she says, “I’m lucky I don’t have one of these of my own. Especially during the Feast of the Ironmonger.” 

He nods. “Everything’s open during the Year’s End time. The curtain between life and death; it’s when our fertility rates go up as well.”

She chuckles. “I think it’s all that dancing and drinking. Not because of some mystical day when cycles are synced.” They both laugh. “Come on,” Nataa says. She looks Ahsoka up and down, eyeing her simple cargo trousers, top, and leather jacket, “we’ve got some hunt clothing for you. So you can move freely on your world, love.”

As they move to the house, Ahsoka eyes the simple kilt, made from a tunic with the top straps around the waist that Makyo, Nataa, and Cubreem wear. She grins ruefully, remembering a full month in the bush, when she and Bryne were reconnecting. She remembers both of them dressed in this attire.

She sits at the low dining table in the living area, as Makyo prepares a light meal in the cooking area. She looks around the room, a mix of the modern and the old. She notices that Makyo is eyeing her thoughtfully as he works. 

As they are eating, she makes a decision. “Out with it, Makyo,” she says between bites of the akar-meat sandwich. “You’re my hunt-mother’s hunt-brother, as well as my hunt-brother’s hunt-father.” She’s glad that she can navigate that complicated relationship. “You’ve earned the right to speak openly with me.”

After a moment, after finishing his own sandwich, he looks at his mate and then back at Ahsoka. His amber eyes grow troubled. “I’m glad that you answered my call, Ahsoka,” he says. “I’ve a dilemma that may be beyond my abilities, even as an Elder of the Hunt.”

Ahsoka smiles and reaches out, touching his hand. “I hope that I can help.”

Makyo takes a deep breath. “The Warden of the Hunt has been chosen. I’m very concerned that there might be outside interference in the process.”

“I’m a little rusty on my superstitions and legends,” Ahsoka replies. 

She holds her hands up as she sees his eyes narrow and his lekku stripes color with a sharper intensity. “Peace, Makyo. I mean no disrespect.” 

Nataa punches her mate’s arm; he smiles sheepishly. “I guess I shouldn’t be thinking this was the ancient times when blasphemy was punished by flogging in the square.”

Nataa grins. “You can’t spank her either.” She kisses him quickly. “Just me, when I’ve agreed to it and can reciprocate.”

Ahsoka hopes she is able to keep her lekku stripes from running the spectrum of blue. Sometimes the people of the Hunt can give Zeltrons a run for their credits in blunt, earthy talk of matters of the body. _Comes from living all together in the wilds_ , she thinks.

Makyo looks at his mate with pure love. Ahsoka smiles at the tenderness on both faces. He turns back to her, growing serious.

“The Warden is almost always a young woman, chosen after deep thought and some kind of mystic communing by the Ironmonger’s Council. She’s chosen for her skill in the hunt, but just as importantly, for her innate leadership skills and clear thought.”

Ahsoka is thoughtful. “The Naboo elect their Queens from a pool of proven young leaders. Mainly for that reason—their clear, unbiased vision and thought. Their education system, which starts almost as toddlers, helps them determine those. It’s worked for centuries for them. Mostly.”

“It’s worked for us, as well, Ahsoka,” Nataa observes. “The Warden isn’t our leader, but a thoughtful advisor to the Shakraj.” 

Ahsoka recognizes the word. _The First Councilor_. The elected leader of Shili. “I remember a bit now, from what Shaak Ti told me during my hunt-training. Even though most Togruta aren’t in the Hunt anymore, it is recognized as a positive trait from our past.”

Makyo nods, his eye coming back to the conversation, after going distant at the mention of his hunt-sister. “This relationship between the Hunt and the cityfolk and those in between has always been positive.”

“So what’s the issue?” Ahsoka asks. 

“The young woman chosen is from the city. Even though her mother’s family was from the Hunt, she has always been kept separate from her heritage. She’s never been trained. Plus I don’t know anything about her leadership skills. She seems a bit...”

“Shallow,” Nataa adds. 

“Plus, her father is the personnel director for Shili’s branch of the CEC,” Makyo says. 

Ahsoka closes her eyes. The Corellian Engineering Corporation. Makyo and Nataa’s employer, as engineers. “I can see why that could be troublesome, but how does that affect her ability to do her job?”

“He has entered the first heat for an ability to stand for election as Shakraj.”

Ahsoka breathes out. “Okay. I need to find out more about the process of selection. Can I talk to Jedu? If he’ll talk to me,” she adds hastily. 

Makyo smiles. “He remembers you fondly. Hopefully you can keep from falling into bed with him.” Nataa giggles at Ahsoka’s expression. “He may not be able to tell you much. It’s all very secret and arcane,” Makyo finishes. 

Ahsoka nods. “Okay. If you’ll set it up for in the morning, I’ll meet with him.”

As they get up from the table. She sees Cubreem looking at her imploringly, his sling and belt with his hunting knife in his hands. She smiles broadly and nods. 

As they exit the ‘stead, her feet bare and connected to her world, Ahsoka’s thoughts are about her past experience with ‘chosen ones.’

They aren’t good.


	5. Two Queens and a Joker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting, a sleepover, and a party. Only brings joy.

Breha stares at them for a moment, watching them both try to scramble for a credible answer. She grins and rolls her eyes, before leading them over to the couch, where she sits between them. 

She reaches over and touches Bryne’s cheek, then Meglann’s. Bryne is amazed at the tenderness of the gestures. “Any new scars?” Breha looks at Bryne when she asks, but the question is directed to both of them. 

Neither of them reply. “I have a favor to ask of you,” she says to Bryne. 

“Name it, Majesty.”

“A certain member of a little organization of ours, very similar to the Crowneshield Foundation that a certain layabout Corellian noble supposedly finances, has found evidence that a threat to innocents everywhere, one that we thought had been suppressed, even in the Empire, is up to its old tricks again.”

Bryne breathes out. “Let me guess. Dala Ti and the Zygerrians.”

Breha’s eyes widen slightly; the look is replaced by a smile. “I guess my daughter’s swim teacher told you about that? The one I blame for Leia never wanting to wear a swimsuit?”

He grins at that.“Some, though not much. I worked a bit with Dala in a past life. She was very committed to stamping out slavery.” He looks down. “Like the Jedi were, once.”

“She’s done some amazing research,” Breha says, moving forward. “She may have tied anywhere from 500 to 1000 Togruta colonists, still missing from Kiros, to these findings.”

“Kiros?” Meglann asks. “I thought Togruta lived mostly on their homeworld, in any large groups.”

“There are some colonies. One in particular, a colony of artisans and scientists. It flourished, until the Seppies wanted their world. The Zygerrians, who had a very flourishing slave empire, until the Jedi put paid to it, had thrown their lot in with the Seps.” He looks down as he finishes. “There were around 50,000 colonists.”

“That same swim teacher helped her master, his former master, and a task force save them. They were supposed to be relocated on Kiros, but that never happened, to any great extent,” Breha adds. 

“So what’s the clue?” Bryne asks. 

“She just did some deep research. Spent several months doing it. It all came together a few days ago. Also, the Moff that had been suppressing the Zygerrian slave culture—probably to keep the competition down at some point—has just been detailed TDY to Mimban.” Breha falls silent.

“The interim Moff isn’t so, uh, _enlightened_?”

Breha smiles at the emphasis and the irony. “No. The Moff’s husband. A shady charmer named Jadhic Sander-Calanthe. Took her name.”

Bryne nods. “Sounds kinda Mando, as well as a few other cultures. The spouses take the name of the one with the most juice.”

“Or they take the name of the House that they want to, because the spouses are equal in their partnership and regard for one another,” Breha Organa says dryly.

“There’s that, too,” Meglann says with a giggle at his sheepish expression. She grows serious.“You said, ‘shady’, Majesty?”

“Seems to always be short of getting terminated, with some of his business deals. Sen M’Faru even opened an investigation on him when he was Lieutenant of Inspectors for the University District.”

“Before some Corellian pain-in-the-ass snatched me away and cursed my life,” comes a deep voice from the door.

Bryne rises and walks over to the door, eschewing Sen’s salute and brings him into a tight embrace. Sen repeats the gesture with Meglann, holding her at arm’s length afterwards and looking with pride on his dark features at her uniform.

“So did you come here to complain about the extra pay I got you as a General, or to make a grand entrance?” Bryne asks as Sen takes a seat. 

“Neither. Although the pay comes with extra sips of that Corellian swill you gave me that I have to take at the end of every day.” It is his turn to grow serious. He turns to Breha. “Dala Ti has left the Mother,” he says. 

Breha breathes out. “Do you know where she went? she asks evenly. 

Sen shakes his head. “No, but I can give you three guesses, your Majesty.” 

She nods. “And the first two don’t count.” She rises. “So, Bryne? Do you think you can help with this? I’m loathe to bother Fulcrum. As you know, she’s on Shili, then she’s headed to Bothawui to possibly create a new cell.”

Bryne nods. “I may have to involve her at some point, my Queen,” he replies. He turns to Meglann. “Looks like summer camp is on hold. Contact No-no on Bothawui. You can both head to Zygerria. I’ll follow, but I’ve got to figure an angle. I think y’all can both play ‘rich Corellian with more money than sense’ and her pilot with ease.”

“Nola was born to play the rich idiot,” Meglann says easily, “ especially since she can’t fly for shit, unless speederbikes and landspeeders can suddenly travel through hyperspace.”

Bryne turns to Sen as their laughter subsides. “I might need my Imperial Magistrate’s warrant reactivated from when I had your job. I might be able to get some ISB creds from another source, but this would give me more juice. I had a temporary one, but it expired.”

Sen smiles. “We never let yours lapse. We can transfer it to Corellia with no problem, especially since you seem to be some useless noble there.”

Breha stands and pulls Bryne and Meglann into her arms, as they rise, reaching up and kissing them both on the cheek, looking at them fondly. “Be careful, my chaos-bringers. Do your worst.” She nods. “And your best.”

She and M’Faru leave the room. As they do, Flori sweeps in, a devilish look on her face. “Too bad we won’t have time for dinner. I have to attend the Queen at some shindig.” The look turns even more devilish with a dash of lust. “I had dessert all planned out.”

Bryne feels his middle twitch with the suggestion, as Flori turns and leaves, her empathic resonance finally leaving with her. Mostly. A look at Meglann’s face and he can tell that certain of her parts mirror the twitching. She matches his grin, with only a hint of a blush accompanying the expression.

“Should I take this time to tell you that Dani’s on the ship and might have ‘dessert’ prepared for us as well?”

He sighs. “I guess you can contact Nola tomorrow. When you’re headed to Bothawui to pick her up, when the ship’s ready.”

 _So much for sleep_ , Meglann thinks as they exit the palace.

* * *

Jillan Bykos wraps her arms around her legs on the simple, but familiar floor pallet, set off in one corner of the common area. Her mother’s mother had gifted her with this privacy—privacy that was common in the cities, but uncommon in the communal living arrangements in the bush.

Her grandmother and her two mates had smiled encouragingly at her fear, as well as her sarcasm and anger, never quite rising to disrespect, but close. 

She closes her eyes; she sees the influence of Jonan Bykos—her father—in her own behavior. She sees his contempt for anything related to her late mother’s family and their traditions. 

Jillan wonders if the city-woman that he has announced his marriage to has something to do with this contempt. Either that or his newfound political aspirations. 

_No_ , she thinks, _he’d always had that contempt_. Even when speaking of her mother in her presence. 

She remembers his nonchalance when Makyo Ry and the Ironmonger, Jedu, had come to inform her of the selection. _Take her,_ he’d said. One less encumbrance. He had given her a perfunctory hug; the city-woman hadn’t even done that.

Jillan chokes back tears as she thinks of her friends and their little clique at school. She wonders if they will miss her during the next school term. Probably not. They seem to be only interested in their cruelty to others. 

_Just like I was._

She thinks of the trip to the bush, to her grandparents’ small huntfast. As she uses the term, even in her mind, she thinks of the differences in terms she’d learned, even in a short amount of time.

She looks out the window at the dimming light of the early evening. She sees the other small houses of the huntfast, a collection of different family groups within the same clan, drawn together for the purposes of continuing the hunt. Jillan shakes her head. She would’ve preferred a hunt _stead_ , which would’ve been a single family group’s more permanent hunting camp. 

Or better yet, her own comfortable apartment in Corvalis, the capital. 

She remembers her conversation with Makyo Ry, as he explained what she’d been chosen for.

“What do you mean, I’m the Warden-Select of the Hunt? I’ve never hunted anything except for a bargain in the shops in Corvalis! You and your Ironmakers or whatever they’re called must be dim if I’m your best hope!”

He’d kept his expression mostly calm as he’d patiently explained. “The Pantheon of the Huntress works in mysterious ways. You’re fifteen now, an adult in the culture of the Hunt, if you haven’t taken your own akul teeth. You will be well protected.”

“Okay, if I’m an adult, then I can refuse!”

Her father had spoken up, then. “You may be an adult in the wild, my girl,” he’d said, “but in the Empire, you still have a couple of years. I say that we should be grateful for this honor.”

The contradiction of his words in the same sentence had caused a condition she wasn’t known for. 

Speechlessness.

“There’ve only been two young women who’ve refused the Call, my lady,” Makyo had said, “but they were needed in the galaxy as a whole. The last one was only about ten years or so ago. At the start of the war.”

As she followed the two men to the waiting transport, her anger flaring at the small amount of belongings she was allowed, it had boiled over. 

Makyo Ry had looked at her in exasperation, but with a bit of humor thrown in. “I said you’d be protected, my lady Warden. Just wondering if I’ll be protected from your rage and spite.”

She’d fallen silent at that. 

Jillan feels herself growing calm as she looks at the setting sun, over the admitted beauty of the wilds. She wonders where the calming that she’d detected since she’d arrived was coming from. 

Another thing she’d never been known for.

* * *

The newly appointed interim Moff of the Chorlian sector, takes a flute of Toniray from the server’s tray. Zara Molec watches as his eyes follow the Twi’lek male’s muscular form as he moves to the next guest. After a moment, his gray eyes track to hers. He has the good sense to looks sheepish, before giving her the warm smile. A smile that undoubtedly makes humans of all genders immediately open their legs or otherwise present themselves. 

She herself is more interested in his ability to make money and reinvigorate her father’s empire, rather than pair of pretty eyes, a full head of hair, and a large—

Zara shakes her head, then glances at herself in the mirror on the fall wall. She runs her hand over the formal dress, knowing that her form is pleasing to him, and that right now, she possesses something that he desires above her pointed ears, rare dark, almost black fur over her ears, her pointed chin, and the bright green eyes that reflect the fire-mural over the mantle next to her.

She possesses a commodity that has the ability to make them both rich, while supposedly solving a problem plaguing her father, or at least one that could get both of them shot by Jadhic Sander-Calanthe’s moralistic wife.

The permanent Moff. 

Especially if her father found out more about their scheme. Zara was under no misconception that her father wouldn’t sacrifice her, his only daughter, if it meant saving his own skin.

She walks over to where another Zygerrian has cornered Jadhic. The Zygerrian’s eyes widen in fear as Zara jerks her head at him. He doesn’t quite fall over himself in his haste to leave the corner. 

Sander-Calanthe looks at her with amusement, while sipping his drink. “You seem to strike fear in your people’s hearts very easily, Zara, darling,” he observes. 

She ignores his words. “Have you given any thought to how we’re going to transport the units, now that my cousin MaDall has shown her own cowardly colors?”

“I’ve got some feelers out, my dear,” he replies. “I’ve sent out a bounty for transports. At least three medium ones.”

She raises her eyebrows at that. _You’re possibly smarter than you look, my dear Moff_. 

“Well, I hope it does come through, for your sake,” she says, lifting her hand to his cheek. “I won’t die alone, if any of this scheme goes south.”

“I’ve got the Moff’s authority. With any luck, my lovely wife, if she’s true to form, will be at the forefront of the action. I’ve put some contingencies in place that will ensure that she dies gloriously for the Emperor.”

“Shall we retire, my dear Moff?” she asks, placing her hand on his lower arm. He sets his drink down. As they start to leave, they both stop as their eyes lock on one of the servants. 

A tall, Togruta female, her skin golden in her plain servant’s tunic, with three diagonal slashes on her cheeks. They look at one another, just as she sees them looking.

“I thought none of the Togruta units were on-planet,” he says. They start towards her. 

Zara stops as they both hear a commotion at the entrance. Two of the Twi’lek servants, the muscled male who had caught Jadhic’s eye, and a scarlet-skinned Lethan female, have collided with a crash. The fleet troopers at the door move towards them, yanking them up roughly. 

“Hold,” Jadhic says, moving towards them. “Release them. They’re not ours to punish.”

“On the contrary Moff,” Zara says, “they’re mine.” She looks at the guards. “Take them for processing.”

“Belay that,” Jadhic says. “Take them out of here. Get a droid to clean this up.” He looks at his guests. “My apologies. There’ll be more of my alcohol soon.”

The crowd laughs and returns to their empty conversations. Zara fixes her anger on the Moff. 

He merely raises his eyebrow. “You should remember, my dear. Remember who the power is in the sector. Certainly not you and not your father.”

She turns away. The Togruta is nowhere to be seen. Without a word, she follows him from the room.


	6. Revelations Past and Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Depth of Dreams; a dose of realism.

The former Covenant of Corellia looks out over the vast wasteland that is his wife’s homeworld. The light of the sun glints off of the metal of the dock; it warms his face. His gray eyes turn as he hears footsteps behind him. 

Nadara Shysa-Blackthorn smiles up at him as she soothes their son, who continues to wriggle in her arms. Jamestyn Blackthorn gazes into their matching eyes, a warm green with barely noticeable gold flecks. He reaches up and runs his index finger over the scar paralleling the dark bronze eyebrow over her left eye, the long-ago product of a spar with a beskar blade. A scar that easily could’ve been repaired, but she’d kept it, as a reminder to keep her guard up. 

Not to mention the affect that the scar might have on the young men and women knocking down her door for a night or a lifetime with her. He grins. _Including thirty-something, washed-up former nobles._

Jamestyn looks down at his son, who focuses on his face. He moves his fingers down to the infant’s cheeks, playing them over his slightly darker skin than his own, but not quite as dark as his mother’s. He reaches down and touches his lips to Jame’s forehead, then moves to Nadara’s lips, lingering there for several seconds. 

They break apart, but continue staring at each other, all three of them. Finally Nadara places her free hand against his chest. 

“It’s time, love. We’ve got to go. We’ll be fine. The Dragon won’t let your ex-wife bother us. Corellia is your home. I want to see more of it while his engineers work on the Fourteen.”

He nods after a moment, still mesmerized by those two sets of eyes. He moves his own down over her form, clad in a traveling suit rather than her customary fine armor, the helmet hanging from her belt. He wonders if he’d rather see her in that, with her helmet hanging from her belt with her weapons. The large, unique custom blaster that she, her parents, and her brother usually sported. One of only four of its kind, commissioned by her mother, when she had been raised to the rank of the Mand’alor of this world. The ever-present beskad, the short vibrosword, made of the same metal of her armor, probably similar to the one that had inflicted the conversation piece over her eye.

Jamestyn reaches down into the pocket of his business suit, drawing a thin silvered chain out. He lifts it and places it over his son’s head. The boy immediately takes one of the items hanging from the chain and lifts it to his mouth. Nadara moves his hand away, holding the device up. Jamestyn touches the symbol and then separates it from the one it is mounted on. 

He closes his eyes, running his fingers over the two objects. One, a silver set of offset triangles, the point of one in the exact middle of the other, the pair of triangles attached to to a section of a larger chain—a chain with only five links. Without opening his eyes, his fingers run over the other device, the one that the Covenant Chain’s medallion had been attached to. 

A small gold disk, with a purple enameled ribbon just inside, with silvered points of a four-pointed star at each of the compass directions on the outside. Four smaller gold discs rest at each corner. His fingers trace the aurabesh words in the purple; he can just make out a green filigree on the outside of the ribbon. His mind focuses on those words, in the High form of an ancient language. 

_For my world’s freedom, for my people’s liberty_. The mantra a part of the Declaration for the holder of this device. The Elector of Corellia. 

Two symbols of his families and his world. One that he’d given up for love; the other that he would never possess. Two offices that were now vacant. Two symbols, when placed together, could guarantee that freedom and liberty, as well as protect it and whoever would be the Elector. The responsibility of the Covenant-Hope of Corellia.

“You’ve done well, Styn,” Nadara whispers in his ear. He sends the thought of another symbol from his mind. A symbol of this world, resting in safekeeping with her mother that would be needed for the others to work as he intended, if he or she weren’t around. “You’ve made something that will keep both of our worlds safe. I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes tear with raw emotion. That pride. That love.

He touches her cheek, then Jame’s. “We should be proud of what we made here, Dara,” he adds. “He’s our future. Not the Fourteen.”

“Come on,” Nadara says, looking around him, “they’re waiting.” He jumps as her free hand, concealed from view from others, reaches down for his groin. He laughs, then grows serious. 

His eyes narrow at the woman standing at the door of the docking bay. One of Zegon Shysa’s mercenaries, dressed in mismatched beskar. A small, beskar-infused mask hides her lower features, in lieu of a helmet. A data monocle on a headband rests on her reddish blonde hair. Her pale blue eyes stare at him, with no expression giving him any indicator of emotion from her. 

As he turns to board the small shuttle, he feels a twinge of concern. His eyes move to the aft area of the ship, to the single lifepod. A custom built example, made for a small child. He reaches back to the now-dozing Jame. 

As his vision turns back to Nadara and Jame, it catches another figure standing in the shadows. An orange face with white markings and high blue and white montrals—a young Togruta woman in her early twenties. 

Bryne Covenant wakes with a stifled scream. Beside him, Dani Faygan sits bolt upright, her crimson arms instinctively grabbing him. He looks around the room at the empty spot on the large bed. He remembers that Meglann had been with them for some ‘light-sharing’, but then had gone to her bed in the crew spaces on the lower deck, citing the exertions of the night before and earlier in the day—including some that were not directed at anyone or anything other than the workings of the ship.

“I got you,” Dani whispers. She folds him into her warmth, rocking him back and forth. He is taken back to the time before he and Ahsoka had reconnected, when Dani and he spent a great deal of time on this ship, helping each other heal from the losses of the war. Not just healing their bodies, but the entire Zeltron soul—the heart and the mind as well.

“I saw a bit through the resonance, love,” she says after a time. “Was that your mother and father? Before they left on...”

“I guess. I’ve never actually seen a holo or painting of my mother. Even when I was on Mandalore.”

She grins. “You sure were cute as a baby. What the hell happened?” She yelps as his hands play over her bare belly. She grows serious. “What were those medallions he put on you?”

“I don’t know their significance, but two of them were symbols. You’ve seen both.”

“The Covenant and Elector,” she finishes. “Were those found with you after you were ejected?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I know of.” He looks away. “I also never heard that there was another adult on the ship when it was destroyed. There was no one else on the manifest. But, I don’t know who she was, or if she even got on the ship or not.”

“Did you see Ahsoka in the shadows?” 

He grins. “Yeah. I think I need to call her.”

As if on cue, his comm buzzes. He sees a holo project in the caller ID. A holo of a very wet and very nude Togruta. A Togruta with his one of his two favorite expressions on her face. “Speak of the devil.”

The representation is replaced by the real thing, clad in the skimpy hunt-clothing of her people, similar to what she’d worn in her initial stint as a padawan, though with even less covering. “Hey. I was meditating,” she says. “The woman in our dream,” she starts, as if it’s the most natural thing in the universe to share full, vivid dreams. “I could just make out her eyes and hair. Bait, that was Soma Jess. The Green Jedi that I met on Kessel.”

* * *

Zara Molec puts her datapad down as she rises from the table in the small cafe. She watches as the mostly human clientele stare at the older Zygerrian male as he makes his way through the tables to the secluded booth at the back of the restaurant. He ignores the stares, as his guards station themselves at various intervals in the room, glaring at the clientele. 

She shakes her head as most of the clientele gets up and hastily leaves, whether they’ve gotten their meals or not. A small smile creases her mouth. She rises, then bows as her father walks up. 

She doesn’t dare try to show any affection in public to the Regent of Zygerria. 

Nor private, as well. 

Atai Molec sits as the human server draws the chair back, then nearly runs as the predator’s eyes focus on him. 

“Hello, Father,” Zara says. 

He stares at her with the same look for at least two minutes. Zara fights the urge to look at the nearest chronometer, to confirm the uniformity of the minutes spent glaring at her. Instead, she returns his look, but with only a hint of softness, softness that any reasonable being would be due a father from a daughter. 

Or a daughter from a father. 

There is a quirk of his lips—for just an instant, before he looks at the menu. 

A server droid trundles over, waiting expectantly. Atai gives a terse order, then looks at his daughter. 

“It’s early, daughter,” he remarks. “I would have thought that you would still be on your back with your legs spread wide, waiting on our interim Moff to finish his ‘business meeting’.”

She smiles. “We finished our meeting last night. We both have work to do. Tell me, Father. Are you missing your own business meetings with the permanent Moff?”

His eyes flash with anger. Zara is reminded of the flashing of a Zygerrian energy whip, just before it coils. Right after striking.

“You give me too much credit, daughter,” he says. “Moff Calanthe was too biased against Zygerrians to take one between her legs. Besides. In spite of her moral stance against slavery, she had no problem partaking of our remaining ‘servants’, or any of her staff who caught her eye or her fancy.”

Zara files that away for future reference, as the Regent’s food comes.

She allows him to quickly finish his breakfast, waiting on whatever directive or comment on her perceived shortcomings, for after he has digested his meal. Zara is sure that her own response will affect his digestion enough. 

As she waits, she sips at her caf, looking around the dining room. As she suspected, the room is almost empty. The exceptions are two large beings—one an older Pantoran, the other an Iridonian Zabrak, seated at separate tables.

She realizes that the two disparate individuals, seem to be studiously ignoring one another. Her eyes are drawn back to her father.

She realizes that her father has stopped eating and is now studying her intently. He glances at what she is looking at; his eyes narrow, but he turns back to her.

“I don’t need to know what the hell it is that you’re up to, Zara,” he says, his voice controlled, “but I do need to tell you that if you’re doing what I suspect you’re doing, I will disavow any of your actions.” His look hardens. “I won’t hesitate to stand there and watch as our beloved Moff puts your back up against the garden wall, next to your human plaything and adds several extra holes to your chest.”

Zara smiles; she can hear her own hard edge to her voice. “I didn’t know you cared, Father,” she says. “Don’t worry. Nothing will reflect on you. Nor Zygerria. Although it’s telling that your University-educated daughter, one who’s never known what it feels like to process a slave, is the one that may bring back Zygerria’s glory.”

He recoils slightly at her words, but recovers. He rises. “A word of advice. Zygerria fell because of hubris. Hubris that they couldn’t be taken by the Jedi. There may be no Jedi left, but there’s always a bigger fish.”

He pulls a small disk from the pocket of his suit vest. He places it on the table. “I intercepted your shipcall signal. I’m not the only one. Some of the Five Syndicates are indicating interest. Be careful about your hubris, my daughter.”

She stares at the puck as he exits the room, his guards following. Zara weighs her options. In her mind, she sees the numbers of balls that she seems to be juggling, at this particular moment. 

They are all heavy. Potentially fatal, if one is dropped. 

Her eyes fall on the puck, as its ‘reply’ light starts to blink.


	7. Selection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choosings both hard and gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Moving to two chapters per week, as I can.

The Warden-Select kneels as she senses torches lit in a circle around her. She knows, from the description of this ceremony, that a collection of older men and women, their montrals high and their lekku long, watch impassively as the acolytes finish their tasks and then leave the small room. On a whim, she sends out the gift of a huntress. The signal allows her to paint a picture of the room, without her vision. Her eyes start to tear slightly behind the linen cloth binding her eyes. A picture just vibrant enough to see the slight smile quirk on the lips of the Chief Ironmonger. There is a slight displacement of air in her senses as she sees the woman nod. 

The Select tunes other senses as one of the Ironmongers begins to speak. She can just detect a scent in the torches, a scent that mixes the spicy and the sweet. She can hear something being poured on each flame, with the slight sizzle emitting the smell. 

“The Warden has spoken. She, as is her right, has made the choice to step down after ten turns of the world. In accordance with our laws and customs, the Council has convened and considered the auguries, as we often do in decisions of import. The Huntress, through her Oracle-Board, has made her choice.”

The Select realizes she is holding her breath, she feels a hand on her shoulder; she can feel the strength flowing into her, just from that touch—just as she had from her first steps in the Hunt. The touch of the only other person here who was here for her, rather than some ancient requirement. 

The aged voice continues. “You are here because you have been selected for a important task. You will be the voice of the Huntress and her Pantheon to the First Spear—the chosen leader of our people. You will guide whoever it is with wisdom and courage.”

She feels the circle grow tighter. She feels her nostrils flare at a scent that she knows well. A coppery scent—a by-product of those teeth that she wears as a headdress on her forehead. She can feel the headdress touching the middle of her front lekku. Her nose can detect two different scents. 

“You will be anointed, in preparation for your final affirmation.” She feels the warmth of one liquid from the two present. The scent comes close to overpowering her, as she hears soft voices begin to chant. Her senses open; she can hear the flames guttering in rhythm with the chants. The voice of the Ironspeaker takes on a distant quality, as if she is now the only one in the room. 

“We anoint you with the essence of one that has helped our people to survive. A crafty prey, as well as one who entire body sustains us; we draw our strength from the akar.” She feels the warmth of the blood under two fingers on her forehead. 

The coolness of a metal cup touches her lips. Just a touch and she swallows the sip given to her. She feels the warmth pervade her body. 

Another voice sounds in her hearing. “We anoint you with the essence of one that has helped our people to survive. A strong and wise predator, whose power and ability to survive challenges us, even as one that we recognize could end us all; we draw our strength from the akul. Again, two fingers draw the blood over her forehead, crossing that of the akar. One more sip and she feels a weight lifted from the chamber.

“Is there any among this Council who have a final objection to this select?”

She hears a scream, not from a distance, but from in her own mind. 

Another young woman—another chosen Select—wakens as rough hands seize her from her sleep, as the scream is cut off by a hand over her mouth. 

In spite of her fear, in spite of the feeling of helplessness—of no skill in defending herself, the kidnapper with his hand over her mouth gives his own scream as her sharp incisors plunge into his hand. 

Another gives a sharp exhalation of breath as her flailing foot connects with a very soft part of his body—a location that is mostly universal among bipedal males of the galaxy. She reaches up and yanks the hood from the bleeding victim. Her silver eyes widen at the revealed face. A sharped-chinned face with long, rigid ears protruding from the sides of his face—a face covered with soft hair over the sides and the ears. 

She feels a sharp prick in her neck. Her vision begins to fade from the edges. She hears another scream in her mind. Jillan Bykos is only sure that it isn’t hers.

Ahsoka jerks up from the bed. Her eyes search around the dim light of the communal sleeping room. Next to her, on his own pallet, Cubreem is on his feet, crouched with his small learner’s knife in his hand. She looks down at Azaada; the toddler is still sleeping, unperturbed by the goings-on of the adults around her, including the one sharing her pallet. Ahsoka looks over at the other pallet in the room. 

Makyo Ry looks at her with a mixture of irritation and concern as his eyes struggle to focus. Eyes that are managing to tear themselves away from the task at hand. 

His look is mirrored on the face of the receiver of the task at hand. Namely Nataa Shoshi-Ry, who lies underneath her mate, their bodies melded in an age-old conversation.

Concern overrides irritation at the coitus interruptus on both their faces as they stare at Ahsoka’s. They both immediately disengage and move towards her pallet. 

“Ahsoka, what is it?”

Ahsoka exhales sharply, then takes another breath. Then another. “I don’t know. I think that something has happened to your chosen one.”

Nataa’s look of concern turns to one of skepticism. “You haven’t met her yet—haven’t even talked to Jedu yet.” 

She shushes at a look from Makyo. “I think we should take her at her word.” His face immediately grows distant, as if in the past. “I know better than to doubt a Jedi,” he says, whispering the last word. The hunt-brother of Shaak Ti looks at Ahsoka, his concern growing.

Before she can speak, there is a pounding on the door of the huntstead. Ahsoka hears a voice from her past. “The Select has been taken!” Jedu Bannic, the Ironmonger, yells.

Ahsoka sighs, then moves towards the pile of clothing and equipage on the low chest near her pallet. She pulls her comm out. A quick search of names and she connects. 

“Hey, No-no. Time to stop destroying your liver on Selda’s well-whisky and trying to get into his bartender’s pants. Need you to start moving towards Zygerria. There may be a problem there that we need to deal with.” She clicks off before Nola can protest. 

Makyo and Nataa look at her. Finally Nataa reaches up and touches her cheek. “You know, if you’d taken up the offer of a guest-fasting in our bed, this probably wouldn’t have happened—you’d’ve been awake,” she says, with a hooded look. Ahsoka’s eyeroll can probably be felt, rather than just seen.

There is a snort from the pallet beside Ahsoka. The adults look down at Azaada, holding their breath. 

She sleeps on, still unconcerned with the world of adulthood.

* * *

Nola clicks off her own comm. She feels the wrinkle between her eyebrows form as she digests the two messages that she had gotten from two separate sources. Each telling her to go to the same place, for two wholly different reasons. She breathes out, her mind focusing on at least three different problems plaguing her.

Four, if you count the thunderous expression from the young woman sitting next to her on the couch, in the process of pulling her boots off, so that they could join her shirt on the floor of the small attic room. She smiles crookedly at Cyn Eldar, then reaches down and picks up her own trousers from the floor. 

“You know, I gotta teach you about answering a damned comm when I’m trying to rock your world,” the Mando fighter, sometime Handmaiden of Naboo says.

Nola snorts. “I knew there was a lot of ‘trying’ there. Not a lot of actual ‘doing’.”

“I got your pants off, didn’t I?” Cyn says. She takes Nola’s trousers from her hand and kneels down. Without a word, she draws the garment up, as Nola rises. 

Cyn takes her into her arms and hugs her tightly. Nola closes her eyes against the sensation of bare skin against hers in her opened shirt. They break apart.

“It’s not all about where you go, Nola,” Cyn whispers against her chest. “Sometimes it’s just the trip.” She tightens her grip. “Really enjoyed the flirting practice. Got a Handmaiden exam coming up.”

Nola giggles at that; she tightens her grip as well. “I enjoyed the laughs, too, Cyne’,” she says, giving her the suffix that Handmaidens are now given the option of choosing, rather than one reminiscent of their current Queen’s name, especially since anonymity doesn’t seem to be a concern for the current Queen. Nola pushes the memory of her distant cousin from her mind.

Cyn smiles against her. “I could say that about that twit that called you, too. Thought I was going to check that box off a few years ago. But she fell asleep on me.”

Nola gives an expression similar to one that the subject of the conversation might give. “That isn’t a great reference, babe.”

Cyn smiles, but her expression grows serious. “I could tell that she’d been through a lot. She needed it.” She looks away. Nola’s expression softens as she sees the tears welling in Cyn’s dark eyes. 

“It felt good just to hold her as she slept. She looked so young. I wanted to keep her safe in my arms.”

Nola chokes, her own eyes welling. “I know the feeling,” she whispers, half to herself. “I don’t know if that’s in the cards for her.”

They are both silent. “I guess you’ll have to come back and see about that cell, won’t you?” Cyn asks nonchalantly. 

Nola grins. “We’ll see. My oversized shadow is checking out a lead on that. May have to reschedule my business trip here.” She rests her forehead against Cyn’s in the original definition of the Keldabe Kiss. “Maybe Fulcrum’ll come with.”

Her comm chimes with a text. “Looks like my ride’s here. I’ll have to go find her. Meglann gets impatient with time schedules.”

She sees Cyn’s eyebrows raise, as the two jewels in her right lower lip quirk up. “Teenager? Big brown eyes?”

“Yeaah,” Nola says cautiously, drawing the syllable out.

“Thought so. Speaking of scratching a notch off on the ol’ beskar. Girl sure can kiss.”

Nola snorts. She checks her comm again. Her eyes narrow. 

“What?” Cyn asks. 

“Drop. My shadow. He’s been tailing that guy that headed out of the bar most of the night. He’s been checking in every thirty minutes. He’s missed two, now. One could be explained, two in a row’s the alarm bell.”

Cyn sits up. Nola touches a button on her comm.

Meglann’s face rises in holo. A smirk flows to her features as she sees Nola and Cyn and the various stages of undress. “Hmm,” she says. “I see you decided to go for boredom tonight.”

Nola cuts her off before Cyn can snark back. “I need you to ping Drop’s comm. I know we’ve got a timetable, but he’s missed some check-ins.”

Meglann’s eyes grow concerned. She says something to someone behind her. “On it. I know how serious Bryne is about check-ins. Second consecutive?”

Nola nods. She turns and sees Cyn pulling on a body suit, plates of beskar already laid out on the small dresser. “I’ll head out with you. You might need more skilled backup than the little girl with a big gun.”

In spite of the situation, Nola laughs at Meglann’s expression. An expression that promises dire retribution for someone.

The ‘someone’ blows her holo a kiss. “Look forward to it, sweetie.”

* * *

Maris Brood shakes the hands of the two guards off of her arms. She stares defiantly at the faceless sentinels, sentinels clad in scarlet robes and armor. Both of them heft their pikes; she can see the sparks appearing at the tips. Both turn away as if from some silent direction. They allow her to walk forward, or at least shuffle. Her wrists are both encased in Force-suppressant cuffs, or at least her right hand is. Her left is full encased up to her arm, to make up for the lack of a hand from the middle of her forearm on down.

Both cuffs are attached to each, to a chain around her waist, then to both ankles. 

All of the chains are shorter than they should be. To make it harder for her to walk, much less run away, or for her to shirk from the electropikes of her former subordinates of the Emperor’s Inner Guard. 

She stops and stares at the two figures before her. She stands defiantly, she can hear the guards starting to walk towards her. The largest of the figures, his stentorian breathing echoing in the Throne Room, lifts his hand. 

Maris Brood feels the vise around her throat. She drops to one knee; her eyes moving to the polished floor. The vise disappears. 

She hears the mocking laughter from the wizened figure sitting next to Vader. “Such spirit, Lord Vader. A pity that Commander Nulla couldn’t show such in her one duty that we assigned her. The apostate Inquisitor Galen Marek would be on his knees in front of us, waiting to face our justice by now.”

“I searched for him, my Lord,” Maris says. She sees the Emperor’s eyes flash. She steels herself, remembering his correction. Especially when she accidentally referred to herself as his apprentice.

_My name is Maris Brood. It isn’t Nulla, or anything he calls me._

She prepares herself for the onslaught of lightning. Or, more final, a lightsaber blade cutting her in half. 

Only laughter comes. “Yes, you did, my dear,” Palpatine says. “We gave you nine months. Nearly a year. He is no closer to being captured.”

Maris pushes the memory of the remaining three months since the battle on Felucia— a battle against several unknown foes. _Well, mostly unknown and not just the apostate, Marek_. She sees Quinlan Vos’s dark features, the yellow tattoo across his nose as he calmly battles her.

Oddly, his Force signature was more familiar than a Master that she’d never met. It was almost intimate. As if she’d been intimate with the signature’s bearer.

The memory of her former subordinates touching their electrostaffs to her, as well as using her for more physical practice, brings her failure afterwards into sharp focus. She remembers slipping through their defenses, out of her restraints and killing the four that had been torturing her. 

Vader had watched dispassionately. Then calmly yanked her from her feet with the Force and choked her into unconsciousness. 

Unconsciousness, but not death.

“You have a chance to redeem yourself, Nulla,” Palpatine says. “I’ve sensed a slight disturbance in the Force. Almost negligible. A previous mistake of mine took something that belonged to me. Something that I have been searching for for most of my life. There are indications that my mistake may have lost it at some point. You will go and seek it out. If you come across that mistake, you will truly prove yourself worthy of redemption. But, above all else, find what I’ve lost.”

“Where? How will I know what I’m looking for. Or what your mistake was?” she asks. 

He lifts his hand. Her binders fall from her body. She feels the Force flow from her. “You’ll know what I seek, when you sense it. As for where...”

She manages to turn, just in time for pain to lance through her entire body, centered around her throat. She turns towards the source of the pain. Without thinking, she reaches up with her remaining hand and seizes the glowing, tendril of energy. 

Maris yanks, pulling the wielder towards her. She is only able to catch a glimpse of large, pointed ears at a right angle from the red-haired (or -furred) head. An instant before both of her arms wrap around the head.

Even without the left hand, her leverage is true as the Zygerrian’s head is suddenly at an unnatural angle. 

Another electrowhip circles her waist, then another on her right hand. She closes her eyes and visualizes two necks snapping.

As she is buried under a collection of bodies and whips, she looks towards the throne as Palpatine and Vader watch calmly. 

Palpatine smiles and nods at his apprentice. 

A small pack, opened enough so that she can see the contacts lands near her face. 

A pack with three objects. Two side-handled cylinders of an almost obsolete ancient design. 

A metal cyberhand. The left, to be exact.

She laughs as her arms are bound with the whips. The bag follows behind her like an obedient pet as she’s dragged out.


	8. Acting on Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spills, chills, and tests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More lovely art by @rebekahs-art. Beautiful work.

Drop steps into the alley, keeping his eye on the small apothecary that the large human or near-human had stepped into. He moves against the wall and unzips his trousers. As he relieves his bursting bladder, he concentrates on the face of the bruiser. He tries to remember if he’s seen him before; he looks vaguely familiar. 

He breathes out, now concentrating on his memories of the bar and its denizens. He’d seen no evidence that the barfly had been working with anyone. He’d not drawn a second glance until Nola had handed him a damned rolled up napkin. 

Drop zips up, looks around, suddenly concerned if anyone had seen him taking a piss. He rolls his eyes. Living with a just-about-to-turn teenaged girl who seems to be older than her years has made him think of such things. Especially on a small gunship. Drop shakes his head, trying to concentrate on the problem at hand. 

He stops. He’d been following this bruiser for the better part of a night. He’d been checking in regularly by text; he’d received the proper recognition code from Nola. He grins. At least she wasn’t too distracted by Cyn Eldar. He suddenly realizes what has been nagging at him. In spite of the fact that the bruiser had been alone, he wonders if he’d missed something. He wonders if even now Nola had been taken, that she’d been forced to give up the codes. He suddenly looks around. 

He calms just a bit. _First, bud, Nola wouldn’t give up anything_. She’d die first—Drop was sure of all of Mouse and Tal’s merry band, even the newest, Meglann. _Second_. Nola was probably well protected, not just counting her own skills. She was most probably curled up between the thighs of a Mando fighter, who had the additional skills of a Naboo Handmaiden. Another type of fighter, although ostensibly softer and more concerned with makeup tips, but deadly in their own right.

Drop sticks his head from the alley, just in time for his quarry to exit the store, a bundle of flowers in his hand. He looks around the narrow streets; he realizes that he has no way to follow without being seen. He looks up, his eyes narrowing as he sees a series of how close the rooftops are to one another. He spots a ladder, a ladder just beyond his reach. He leaps as soon as he gets to it, but misses the bottom rung. He curses, then looks around, hoping no one saw him. In his mind, he sees the smirking face of a ten or twelve-year old equivalent. A little girl with his face, as well as softer edges from the other ‘donor’, as the longnecks would say. He shoves the face of Jedi Elle Jaquindo, that little girl’s mother, as every normal being says, from his memory. 

As he catches the rung on his second try and pulls himself up, he thinks about how much he misses that little girl. _It’s for the better, right now_ he thinks. Talle is on Alderaan, unconcerned with flying or learning how to shoot their gunship’s weapons, or any of the dozen other skills she has had to pick up for their survival.

```

She’s only concerned with being a little girl. Something she’d had precious time to do in her seven chronological years of existence. She’d shared the rapid aging of his brothers, at least until she resembled a five year old girl. Her aging process had slowed to human-normal. That had been around the time of the fall of the Republic.

He smiles as he reaches the top of the building. She was currently spending time with two other little girls—two princesses, or whatever, from two different worlds. One of them had come to love Talle as a sister; her adoptive mother, Dani Faygan had gleefully adopted Talle as if she was her own, as well. 

He manages to glimpse his quarry turning a corner. He pushes thoughts of the girls away as he concentrates. 

Thankfully his bulk is able to clear the separation between buildings with little effort—the second one as well. He increases his speed, as the third one looks a bit wider. 

Suddenly, his feet are scrambling on air, above the roof. Drop is yanked in the air and over the side. Having been a trooper in good standing of the Grand Army of the Republic, he instantly knows what his foe is. 

He hurtles over the side of the roof and towards the ground, his arms and legs swimming against the air. He’d never been able to get used to being tossed around by any of his Jedi, most recently by Ahsoka Tano on Stornan, the world she’d nearly died on. 

He braces himself against the impact, knowing it will do no good. 

Drop stops only a few inches from the ground. Instinctively, he senses someone standing near him, he drops a hand to the ground, bracing himself. He spins his foot around; he connects with the jaw of the human who’d been waving his Force hoodoo around. As the man reels, he gets a glimpse of a dark face, powerful arms, braids, and some sort of tattoo or marking over the bridge of his nose. 

He only catches a glimpse as the man holds both hands out. Drop loses his breath as the invisible tendrils seize him again and smashes him against the nearest wall. 

He fights to find his breath again. He hears the man walk over to him. Drop clinches his fingers in the dirt. He gathers himself, just as the man’s boot appears in front of his eyes. He shoves himself up, throwing the dirt in the man’s eyes. He lifts his leg and kicks the Jedi square in the balls. 

There is a high-pitched squeak as the man collapses. Drop immediately tries to rise. 

Bad idea, as his bar food comes up in a deluge. 

His world lights up; his entire nervous system lights on fire. 

Another sensation that he’d felt before. Many times.

The blue of the stun bolt fades in his mind. He fights to keep his eyes open. They lock on a figure with a blaster in her hand. 

A beautiful woman with purple hair. As his vision fades, he hears the man speak directly into his ear. 

“Tell your friends to leave me the hell alone. Give up their little dream to fight the Empire. It will only fail.”

His eyes slowly open. He doesn’t know if they’ve been closed for hours, or for days. _Well, somewhere in the middle_ , his gauzy mind manages, suddenly realizing that the sky was lightening with morning. He lies pillowed on something hard, something that feels comforting. 

His eyes focus on the smiling face of Cyn Eldar as she cradles him in her lap, against her beskar-clad chest. She touches his face. He catches sight of a flickering light. 

Drop sighs heavily as his eyes focus on the holocomm in Cyn’s other hand. He closes his eyes. 

“I know you see me, bud,” says a voice in a warm Corellian drawl. A voice he’d known for over half of his life. The voice of a man who was as close to him as any of his brothers. 

“I think that I’m going have to trade you in on a newer model,” Bryne Covenant says.

* * *

The young woman circles warily, watching the man’s every move. She locks her vision on his pale eyes. _Nothing there_ , she thinks. 

Still, Q’ira stares at them, hoping to glean something of her opponent. 

Right up until the time that Dryden Vos leaps, his long body uncurling from its slight crouch. She backpedals, managing somehow not to forget the painful lessons that he and one other had drilled into her in the few months she’d been with them. 

The few months since Dryden had purchased the rest of her debt from the slaver who’d bought her from the White Worms on her own homeworld. A debt that she had incurred while trying to escape. While helping another escape. 

She pushes the thought of the young man and his infectious grin away as she evades Dryden’s first kick, managing to get one strike in on his ribs. 

It was her last strike as his foot connects with her head. He doesn’t pull the blow, she goes down, pain and stars erupting in her head. 

She stares up at the hand, now shaped like the blade of a knife, poised above her throat. She is just able to focus on the hand. The hand that could end her in one quick blow. 

_Not too quick,_ she thinks. A smashed windpipe wouldn’t exactly be an easy death. 

She breathes out as his hand moves down slowly, deliberately. Until his fingertips touch her throat. Softly. The touch turns into a caress. 

He moves his hand to one of hers; he clasps the hand and lifts her to his feet.

“Very nice,” he says in his soft voice. “You’ve come along nicely. You managed to get a strike in on me, something you wouldn’t have been able to do even a week ago. You kept your balance and more importantly, your poise. A very important aspect of Teras Kasi. One thing you might remember is to look at your opponent’s feet, as well as their eyes.” His hand moves up from her throat to her cheek, caressing. “The Founder is impressed with your progress,” he finishes. 

Q’ira nods. _Impressed enough to only choke me to unconsciousness, rather than to death, in our last training session_. She pushes the sight of those yellow-red eyes from her mind.

He pulls her over to the small table. He hands her a towel, then pours her a glass of water. He takes his own towel up, and wipes his face.

“I need a report on your progress on that little thing you’ve been working on in the Chorlian sector,” he says. He moves behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She tenses, wondering if she can lie.

“I’ve gotten feelers from someone on Zygerria. Wanting to move some units of something we’d thought had been suppressed by the Moff there.”

She feels his hands remain on her shoulders, but he begins to rhythmically move his hands over her skin. Gently.

For now. 

“I know that we’ve been trying to move them away from that particular type of operation. We need them concentrating on naf production, to make our spice that much more profitable. Something that they’ve reduced, since they’ve lost their influence.”

He nods against her. “Yes. They’re loathe to mine the naf additive from their own world. They were happy to from their possessions in the sector. So what’s your angle?”

“That someone has not only put out feelers to move the slaves, but for transport as well. That’s what I’ve responded to.” 

For an instant, Q’ira feels his grip tighten. “You’ve sent out our name attached to a response?”

She calms herself, calculating her next move carefully. “Not our name, or even on any frequency that can be traced to us. I used a code that I stole from Black Sun. Specifically, Xizor’s branch. He’s not quite ready to go against Zitan Moj yet.”

Dryden Vos’s hands relax, they return to caressing her skin. She closes her eyes against the hypnotic motion. 

“Very good,” he says, finally. “I still think that our future is the spice trade, in spite of the Founder’s concern that we can’t establish our niche. Our past ability to acquire the naf additive from the Zygerrians has been lucrative and somewhat unique.”

She feels his lips on her neck. She takes a deep breath. “I thought that we would work with whoever bids on the units, to cheat the Zygerrians out of them. Maybe we could show them that they can’t make money anymore. At least until the Empire needs labor.”

After a moment, Dryden nods against her skin. “A solid plan. It will depend on who bids on them, but if it’s someone other than the Syndicates, we might be able to exploit any inexperience in these dealings.”

He pushes her away slightly. “I see that you’ve taken to the financial lessons we’ve been providing. Your more violent lessons are progressing as well. I’ll have to speak to the Founder, but go ahead and run with your project. I’ll see if we can arrange for some ships to get cut out from Xizor’s possession.”

A door snaps open. “It’s time for some other lessons, Q’ira. Some more relaxing ones, but just as important for you.”

She looks through the door. Steam rises from an overlarge bath. A woman of an indeterminate age, of a humanoid species she isn’t sure of, waits in the bath. The dim light plays over her crimson skin and purple hair.

 _My new instructor_ , Q’ira thinks. 

As she follows Dryden into the room, she wonders what Han would think of her and her newfound skills. She pushes his face away. 

As always, when she does, she thinks of the day that had brought her here. When she’d failed in her attempts at a new life. When the Grindalids and the Imperials had seized her. Oddly, she thinks of the one person who’d seemed to protest her capture. A tall young woman who’d been flashing some sort of credentials at a stormtrooper. 

To no avail. 

The young woman’s face is indistinct in Q’ira’s memory. She only remembers her height and an impression of sharp features. 

Once again, Q’ira pushes all memory of before away. She only concentrates on survival. 

Survival, through power. The power never to be a victim again. To never be owned.

As she enters the water, she, as always, wonders if that dream will ever be realized. As she goes to this lesson, her eyes wide open, she smiles. 

Q’ira would keep trying. She would keep building her power.

* * *

The woman’s mind slides through the mists of a barely known power. As she searches for any inkling of what she seeks, she locks again on the powerful mind that she had encountered on Kessel. She manages to erect what shielding she can before slowly—cautiously examining the bright light. 

She manages to see it through the lens of the slightly weaker mind of one that she’d found in her brief contact with Ahsoka Tano. She sees the blue-orange light that this mind sees. 

Soma Jess locks on the green with gold and purple flashes of this presence in the young ex-Jedi’s mind. As she does, she amazes herself at the total lack of desire to sell her knowledge of the fugitive to the Empire. Something that she is sure that would only guarantee her survival for slightly longer than Tano, with her connection, albeit tenuous, to that same mystical energy field that binds these two together. She’d be of no use to the Empire. 

She is only useful to herself. Maybe one other, now. She is fine with that.

Soma probes deeper in the images of the memories of her brief probe. A probe allowed by the one or two aspects of the Force that she can touch. She bites back a curse at her lot in life, at being condemned to have only a taste of the raw power of the Force. 

The taste of one who is merely a slightly more powerful trickster, than one who could shape the galaxy. 

“No,” she says to herself. “I’m exactly what I need to be.” All of that galaxy-shaping power hadn’t helped the Jedi, who’d died by the thousands.

She takes a deep breath. Her mind takes her back several decades, to when she’d first detected the signature of the bearer of that interloper in Tano’s own aura. 

A hangar on a mostly-dead world. A signature from a child in his mother’s arms. A child whose father held something that she’d sought, ever since she’d overheard a conversation between the father and another on his own world. A conversation she’d overheard as a minion of his wife’s father.

One that she’d dutifully reported to that father-in-law. She focuses on the memory in the hangar. She remembers another totem that she’d found while snooping among her employer’s belongings. After Jamestyn Blackthorn and his wife hadn’t come back from that fateful journey. 

One that she hadn’t reported to Zegon Shysa, after he’d found the Corellian symbols on his grandchild. A totem of her world that had gone missing during the reign of criminal collective on that world. A totem with several different paths outlined on it, not just the ability to unlock the path that Zegon Shysa—Tarranic Vheh’yaim had told her about, while sending her on a mission.

A totem that her probes of that mind—a mind unlocked to Ahsoka Tano, if not to anyone else had revealed nothing. She closes her mind to the Force. 

Soma rises from her knees. She grimaces at the pain of resting on her middle-aged joints as she walks from the small room. Pains that had been engendered by a lifetime of petty crimes and misdemeanors. 

And payments for those on the occasions that her power to grift had overridden her discretion and she’d been caught. She smiles to herself as she thinks of one time she hadn’t been caught. 

Ten years of deceiving a small group of superannuated wizards that had separated themselves with their obstinance from the greater Order of those wizards. An Order that these two young people whose Force-tastes are in the forefront of her mind.

Soma screams in her mind as another memory slices into her synapses. The familiar, fecund smell of a world opens another door in her Force sense. A door in which another presences shoves itself into. 

She spits as the taste of ashes permeates her mind. A taste that comes from somewhere else than the two rays of light in her mind from Tano and the younger Blackthorn. A taste first gained on a mystical world, after her sojurn with the Unwanteds. 

One that wraps itself around her being—twisting it even more than her choices had. 

Soma opens the door to the room in the Palace. Atai Molec’s eyes flash at the impertinence. She is just able to give him a hint of what consequences at his own insubordination would be. 

She can’t actually enforce those consequences. 

“Things are in motion,” he says. “My foolish daughter and her pet Imperial are moving forward with their schemes.”

She nods. “Good. This is probably an overly complicated plan, but I think we might be able to draw people out, that will benefit both of us.”

As she turns and leaves Molec, she thinks of her benefit in this plan. Her eyes focus on the three totems from her memory of that day in the hangar, as well as her own manipulations. 

Soma Jess wonders at the chance encounter on Kessel that had put her in contact with some who knew that infant from so long ago. An encounter that would realize riches and power for her that had existed only in her dreams. An encounter that truly began on a burning world.

She closes her eyes and focuses on those three symbols.


	9. Attitudes Adjusted While You Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Corellian-Mandalorian-Alderaani Shit-Talkers’ Club is now in session.

Shyla Merricope shuts the comm off with a stabbing motion of her hand. The cloaked figure, her blue eyes powerful even in the washed out holo, fades from her view.

The blue eyes are narrowed at her as they disappear. The former Diktat of Corellia is sure that her own dark eyes mirror Fulcrum’s expression. She looks down at the same table that the comm rests on. The sight of the blonde wig and the tiny green lenses cuts through her. She flashes to the memory of the holo taken of her—the last public view of her on her world. Her dark eyes open, with a small singed hole with a slight amount of blood in the center of her forehead. Shyla Merricope, known now to most as Regent, stares at the three objects. 

She stares at her new life. 

Shyla comes back to herself as she hears a noise behind her. She turns and stares at the woman leaning against the coaming of the hatch, her arms crossed against her tanktop. Shyla smirks at the three stripes of different colors running through the center of her brown curls.

Tamsin’s eyes don’t return her smirk. The Captain of the _Jamestyn’s Hope_ stands straight and walks in. Another young woman, dressed in the bodysuit portion of her heritage’s signature armor follows her. A heritage shared by Tamsin, if only by fostering.

“What?” Shyla asks. She unconsciously crosses her arms. She breaks the pose, as pain stabs through her frozen right leg. She hobbles over to the nearest seat, pointing to the couch across from her.

“I think you need to adjust your attitude,” Tamsin says. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Shyla asks, her face growing hot. 

Tamsin looks at Iris Rook, who says nothing. “I rest my case. I’m the one that will manage to somehow refrain from dropping your ass out of my ship’s airlock, when you say something like that to me, my crew, or these Mandos. I’m the one whose crew has given up their chances at getting to visit their homeworld on a regular basis, to cart a spice-addicted, washed up politician, who thinks she didn’t have the guts to stand up to the Empire when she could’ve, around the galaxy for her redemption story.”

Shyla freezes, her heart twisting at the words. She looks away.

“Fulcrum may be a smartassed twit and a pain in my ass, but she’s out there on the frontlines. She’ll be the one out on the frontlines, when all of us are safe in a ship, or behind a wall of Mandos. Behind a wall of Mandos that suspect that you just might have a death wish for your perceived failures.”

Shyla says nothing. Tamsin stares at her, then relents. A tiny bit. “I don’t know why you think you need redemption, Shyla. I don’t think there’s anyone that thinks that you failed. Yeah, you could’ve stood up to the Empire. We all know what would’ve happened. They would’ve made sure that you died at the Ending Wall, or worse.” She looks at Iris, at the out-of-place scarf around her throat, over the bodysuit. “I’ve seen holos of when the Ending Wall was used, back in the day. It’s not exactly the way I’d want to go out. It was designed to be public and degrading, even if it was quick, at least after they stopped hanging people.”

Shyla breathes out, then turns and faces the two women. “I’m sorry. A lot of people are depending on me, too. Including that young woman who you refer to as a ‘twit.’ I haven’t exactly proven that I can play well with others. But I’m want to make sure that I’m the one paying the price. I didn’t want a bunch of minders. This is why, after mistakes I made hurt Fulcrum.”

Iris looks at her, as she continues to move her hand over the scarf. In a quick move, as if coming to a decision, she unwraps it. Shyla, in spite of herself, gasps at what is uncovered. 

Iris continues and pulls her gloves off. She lifts her hands to her throat, to the thin, angry scar that appears to circle her neck. Shyla sees the twin scars in each of her wrists, front and back, just above her hands. 

Scars that look suspiciously like through and through knife wounds. She allows Shyla to gently touch all three reminders. 

“I was about to undergo an execution. One that even on my world hadn’t been used in centuries, but had been brought back by the extreme element of Death Watch that I was dealing with. I was nailed to a post—a post made from a particular kind of tree, one that’s used for one purpose—with a beskad that had been discarded and dishonored. Just like me. There was a cord around my neck as well. I won’t go into a further description. It was both degrading and would have been painful and slow. 

“At the time, I thought that I deserved it. I tried to keep a dozen young people out of the fight and safe. A fight I no longer felt was worth it. I watched as those young people were slaughtered, as I waited to die. I’m alive today, because one man felt I was worth saving. A man many had discounted as a criminal and a mercenary. I watched him die a few weeks ago, after a long, full life. He made me and his son responsible for the remainder of his clan.” 

She falls silent, her eyes closed. Shyla watches as tears fall down the brown skin of her cheeks. She lifts her hand from the scar and takes one of the tears away with her index finger.

“I’m following his example. Several people think that you’re worth saving, in spite of you trying to prove how big of an asshole you are. So you can go into the deep dark pit of scumbags that you think is how you’ll redeem yourself, or how you’ll restore the light, or whatever that damned Corellian-Mandalorian do-gooder with the nice eyes and ass calls it—the grandson of that man who thought I was worth saving, by the way. Clan Shysa, both Fenn’s hardasses and Tarranic Vheh’yaim’s Unwanteds will be there with you.”

Shyla feels her own eyes prickle. Tamsin looks at her silently. “She really talks too much,” is all that the pilot says, a slight, sardonic smile on her lips.

Iris blows her a kiss. 

“So what was it that the Fulcrum-twit asked that set you off in your tizzy?” Tamsin asks. 

Shyla beckons them both over to her couch. After a moment, they move and sit next to her. She pulls them in against her shoulders. “Well, in addition to just being herself, she reminded me of something that I started long ago, that I didn’t finish.” She looks at each of them, her look brooking no questions about that part. 

She takes a deep breath and relays the part that might affect them in the here and now.“As soon as Fenn stops playing around with his _Gauntlet_ ship, we need to go to Coruscant. I need to make sure one of my pet scumbags plays his part.”

Tamsin nods. “Xizor.”

“Yeah. Not really sure how I can do this, seeing how I might wind up with him forgetting I’m not a Zeltron and eating my heart.”

“Well, there’s always Fenn. He’s got that whole ‘baffle’em with bullshit’ vibe,” Iris says. “Just like his nephew.”

As their laughter fades, Shyla falls into her own thoughts as the two younger women start planning. Thoughts of two medallions—medallions that would form one, that could’ve solved so many problems. 

Solutions that were lost when a young family had shattered. Only a young man, now well into adulthood, was left. 

Shyla Merricope thinks of the small part that a seventeen-year old apprentice political staffer had played in this story. 

She wonders if Jame Blackthorn and his Fulcrum—along with the rest of his new, found family, could bring that story to a close. One with a different outcome.

* * *

Bryne watches as Shyla’s holo fades. Ahsoka’s holo turns to him; he sees her touch something below his view. He nods as his holo is unmasked. 

“So,” he says. “That went well.”

Her eyes remain narrowed at him. A part of him wishes that she was here, so that he could experience all of her emotions towards him. 

Even ones that caused her to narrow those blue eyes at him. Or someone else. 

He watches as she relaxes. “Yeah. I know. I just hope that your kinfolk can keep her in line.”

He nods after a moment, thinking of those kinfolk. “Or they can refrain from leaving her somewhere long and far away. Hopefully with an atmosphere.”

Their shared laughter is a welcome sound. She grows serious. “So what about what Drop told you? You think it’s Quinlan Vos?”

“Sounds like it. He kinda made it clear that he didn’t want anything to do with whatever the hell it is we’re doing. It sounds like he might have a family.” His eyes sharpen their look. “You could’ve stepped in it, if you hadn’t sent Nola and Drop in.”

“I’d like to think that I have a little skill in picking up on Force users, Covenant,” she says sharply. 

He holds his hands up. “Sorry. Probably better than I can.”

He notices her look away. “It’s okay, Bait. You get to look after me. You and four other idiots that we sorta have a thing with. Doesn’t mean I still won’t push back. Especially when said idiots seem to be pushing their own luck and skills.”

Bryne changes the subject. “So what’s the plan, boss?” he asks. Her eyes flare once again at him, but she calms, giving him one of his favorite expressions. 

“I doubt anyone could be your boss. I asked Dani. She gave up after awhile.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell that she gave up. Or that any of those other three did.”

“I know that this thing with the Togruta—especially the Warden thing, might not meet Bail’s criteria for something I should get involved in, but I feel a responsibility to my people as well,” she says, her eyes growing distant. “If the Zygerrians are trying to start their slaving business up again, then eventually whatever can replace the Republic will have to deal with them.”

“Yeah,” he replies, “or exploit it. Like the current replacement might do at some point.” He reaches out to touch her face, stops as he realizes. Her eyes soften. She lifts her hand and moves it against his virtual one. “What do you know about the Moff? The regular one?”

“Calanthe? I met her during my last dealings with the Zygerrians,” Ahsoka replies. “Seemed like your run-of-the-mill Republic naval officer.”

“Yeah. The kind who with one slight push, would suddenly become part of a totalitarian regime.” She looks away. He knows that she is thinking about some of those. Those that she would never have dreamed would’ve become Imperial officers.

Much less a high ranking member of the Imperial Security Bureau. 

He sees her push thoughts of Yularen away. He looks at her virtual hand, against his. She slowly interlinks their finger, over the parsecs between them. 

“I don’t care what Bail says,” he whispers. “You do what you need to do and I’ll follow your lead. As always.”

The look in her eyes makes his heart leap. “Maybe I should follow yours, Bait,” she replies. “After all, you and J’oh and Gregor, along with Dala and couple of others put them out of operation, at least openly.”

Bryne nods before replying. “Yeah. Fat lot of good it did. There’s always a bigger snake.” He is thoughtful for a moment. “The woman that was running the operation then. MaDall. She left, but I think she still has her hand in.” He feels his eyebrows raise.

“What?” she asks, knowing his expressions. 

“Dav Kolan and I caught up a bit. Mutual goings-on and the like. I found out he was the one who finally advised her to leave Zygerria. Other than the fact that her kinsman—the Regent—wanted to see her dangling from his balcony by her neck. Dav actually ran her as an ISB asset.”

“You think she knows that he’s not in the scumbag club any more?”

“Don’t know. I’m loathe to involve him. He made it perfectly clear he and Dek were happy to stay the hell out of the whole thing.”

“Whatever you decide. We do have some other assets that could encourage her to help us.”

“Kanjiklub?”

“Yeah. They did help find Ardalen and Melis. But I’m worried about the later cost. Their desire to free the slaves from their homeworld is a good thing—I’m always willing to put my finger in the slimy eyes of a Hutt—but the way they’re going about doing it isn’t exactly in the do-gooder’s handbook.”

“I know, Runt,” he replies. “Extortion, smuggling—including spice. A bit of tech stealing. But we do hang out with pirates and ex-pirates. Hell, I’m an ex-Corellian cop. You know what they say—we’re one step above the criminals we hunt.”

The warmth of her grin performs its assigned task, transferring that warmth to him. “I know. I’ll see if Meglann can contact Yelena to ask her. The other thing is that I don’t want to jeopardize the control they’ve got over the Moff there.”

He nods absently. “I’ll see if I can work Dav as well. Appeal to his better nature.”

She gives him a mischievous grin. He waits for it. 

“Don’t work him too _hard_ , stud.”

“So how did your meeting with your one-festival stand go, vaarika?” he asks, knowing that he can give her as good as she does. _She’s always in my heart,_ he thinks. _In the fabric_. “Or is it that what happens at the Ironmonger’s Festival stays at the Ironmonger’s Festival?”

_Always, Baa’je,_ flits through his consciousness at the thought of their hearts.

“Oh, we haven’t had time for _consultations_ , yet, Bait,” she replies easily. “Though I have offered to give you a play-by-play.”

“Dani already did. From when you gave it to her.”

He sees her smile fade. “Are you okay, Bryne? she asks. “You look tired.”

He breathes out. His sabacc face seems to be failing him. 

Or she just knows his face, as well as she knows her own. 

“Haven’t been sleeping. Plus a lot more dreams—not just the ones with my parents. If that was them.”

He wrinkles his brow as she looks down. “I know,” she whispers, “me too.”

He feels his heart move to near-Togruta speed. “Runt, what...?”

She reaches out and touches his cheek. “Hey. It’s okay. Something’s going on with Soma Jess. It feels like since we’ve been talking about her—since I brought her offer to you, it feels like somebody’s watching me.

“In my head.”

Her eyes widen at his expression. _She doesn’t see this expression much_ , he thinks. 

Horror.

_What have I done?_


	10. Scum and Villainy, Both Light and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternative point of view.

Dani watches as Ala holds Jamelyn in her lap, even though Jamelyn is probably too big for sleeping in laps. 

Neither of them seems to mind. She smiles at Ala’s calm face, her eyes closed as she holds her daughter. Dani closes her own eyes, fighting to keep her vow that she wouldn’t burst into tears at the thought of the little time that her foster-daughter would have with her mother. 

She realizes that her father is watching her. She makes sure that her eyes are dry as she quietly rises and moves towards the small open porch on the front of the Corellian-style farmhouse. 

A nondescript house that no one would ever guess housed some of the most state-of-the-art medical equipment in the galaxy. Not to mention one of the preeminent experts in the field of medical research on all worlds, not just this one. Before they leave the sunroom, she looks out back at the small mound of earth that marks the entrance to a Drall’s burrow. One that would rival this house for its research capabilities. 

Draq’ is already standing on the porch. For a moment, Dani stops and looks at him. She sees nothing of the galactic mover and shaker, Draq’ Bel Iblis—the Dragon of Corellia. She only sees a tall man in his early sixties, dressed in comfortable trousers, boots, and an open collared shirt. She walks up to him and circles his middle with her arms, from behind. She closes her eyes, breathing in. Her face rests against just below his middle back. She wonders where the hell her height went, being the progeny of this over two meters tall human and those known for their tall, willowy bodies. 

Although her mother and cousin are both thought to be shorter than average among Zeltrons. Apparently so is her grandmother, who she’d finally met a few weeks ago.

“I’ll give you a hundred credits for your thoughts, my love,” Draq’ says. She can feel his warmth, his smile in his voice, as well as the through the gift of her mother’s people, her empathic resonance.

“You need to be mindful of your money, old man,” she says against his back. “You’re retired now.” She is gratified by his snort. He turns in her arms and pulls her against his chest. She breathes in the scent of his aftershave and his own scent—a slight essence of leather, blaster oil, and the whisky and the cigars that they occasionally share, out on the grounds, well away from Ala’s spaces. 

He kisses her on top of her head. She closes her eyes, then looks up into his piercing blue eyes. 

“I love you, abbeyah,” she says quietly. 

“I love you, na’dottir,” he replies in the same language, the language of her mother and her birthworld. “Really, Daaineran,” he starts. “What’s going on on behind those beautiful eyes?”

She breathes in, using his scent to center herself. “It’s my own problem, Dragon,” she says. “I know what I signed up for.”

“As the Electarine-Caretaker?” Draq’ asks. She sees the concern in his eyes, as well as something else.

_Understanding. The understanding of the same type of personality as mine. Or my mothers’s._

He nods. “You can never just sit idly by, when the galaxy needs you,” he says, giving exact voice to her thoughts. 

She remains silent. He pulls her in closer to his chest, then takes a deep breath. “Sweetie, you can go out and save the galaxy. No one ever said you couldn’t. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Kris Tome is here, as well. She gets paid to watch both of you, but mainly Jamelyn. She is the Elector’s Castellan.” Both of them look through the hall at the woman, just a few years older than Dani, casually leaning up against the wall, splitting her vision between Jamelyn, Ala, and every other point of the compass. The consummate protector. 

Just like many that Dani knew. 

“I know. But you shouldn’t be spending your retirement chasing after a eight-year old.” She smiles softly as she hears Jamelyn’s voice, accompanied by a stubborn expression and two small feet sticking to the deck, just like her uncle’s. _I’m almost nine._

Draq’ pushes her back, looks into her eyes. “Are you kidding? I don’t know if you’re up on current events or not, but I’m not exactly retired. I’m not sure that my nephew can be trusted not to make a hash out of everything, or drink the profits from Whyren’s Ancient.” He grins. “Besides. I never really got to be a father, between Garm hating my guts and you being on another world.”

She reaches up on her tiptoes and kisses him. “Garm doesn’t hate you. He didn’t. I think you were both hurting from Laira’s death.”

He is silent, but she can see the gratitude in his eyes. He looks away, gathering himself. When he looks back at her, he is the Dragon. Polished. Powerful. But still full of love for his own. 

“I think we have to start making plans for the future, love,” he says softly. 

_For after Ala dies_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say. She nods, not exactly wanting to discuss it. 

“Even before that. I think that Jamelyn needs to live on the _Draq’stone._ In case we have to get her off of Corellia. I’m going to talk to Heg about treatment options for Ala. Whether we can give her the support we need on the _Draq’stone,_ if we have to get her off. Him, too.”

She manages to keep her tears down at what she has to say. “I think that she’s going to tell you that she’ll stay behind. She wouldn’t want Jamelyn’s safety compromised by us trying to get her off. Besides, we have to figure out what you’ll do.”

He shakes his head. “I’m expendable. I’ll stay here to see what I can do for our people. I swore an oath nearly a half century ago, pledging my life to Corellia and her people. It wasn’t cancelled by my retirement.” He looks at her steadily. “We’ll have to come up with a new ident for the ship. The Corellian registry might be the same, but the Imperial should be something else.”

She places her face against his chest, unwilling to go any further with this conversation. Her tears dot his shirt.

“I was thinking about calling her the _Jana Sloane_. I think she was important to all of you, in some way. Hell, y’all keep her picture on the bridge for everybody to touch when they come and go.”

Draq’ holds her, fighting the resonance as she gives in to the sobs. He wishes that he could’ve held her when she was a child, against skinned knees and broken hearts.

* * *

His Excellency, the interim Moff of the Chorlean sector, looks out at the crowd of his afternoon levee. Jadhic-Sander Calanthe shoves down the contempt that he feels for all of them. 

They are a means to an end. An end that will send him where he wants to be above all else. Preferably in one piece and with a final identity. One that will ensure that his body parts remain connected where they’re supposed to be. 

He lifts his datapad as he nods at yet another obsequious supplicant. He touches the crimson icon on the home screen. The flat screened escape soothes him as he looks on a world of joy and light. Of retirement and reward. His eyes play over the light, airy architecture, the beautiful beaches along the coasts, where most of the joyous inhabitants have settled. He can feel the warm sun on his face of those coastlines. He can feel the warmth of the crimson-skinned people as they celebrate every aspect of their lives. 

He shakes his head, deactivating the travel brochure. As it fades, he sees one paragraph of print in particular. A paragraph extolling the virtues of the interior of each continent, a mountainous region, where very few people live. Only a few religious enclaves and archives dot that interior. 

He thinks that it might be an excellent place to lose oneself, if a certain former ruler of his homeworld comes calling. He lifts his hand to his throat, as if feeling a touch of an arcane power there.

Jadhic curses to himself, but calms as he remembers a report not seen in any travel brochure for the world known as the Land of Song. 

_Invaders don’t seem to do well there._

He realizes somebody has moved next to him. He paints a smile on his face at the sight of his new aide, one who had replaced Joric Stelton, who had been sent with his wife to her new swampy empire.

An aide who’d kept him apprised of many things about his wife’s intentions. He closes his eyes, allowing himself a tiny bit of time for mourning. He’d gotten the news this morning. Joric Stelton had died gloriously, leading a charge against the enemies of Order.

Jadhic ends the tiny bit of grief for the aide as his eyes move over the new aide’s form. He nods and speaks. “What was your name again? Where are you from?”

“My name is Jirden, your excellency. Virclav Jirden.” The young man gives him a crooked grin. “I’m from Corellia.”

Jadhic smiles. _Even better_. He reaches out and touches Jirden’s hand. “I think we’ll get along fine. I need to you to go to the Molec enclave. Get to know Zara. I’m sure she won’t be able to resist your obvious charm.” He feels his expression grow hard. “Find out if she has made contact with anyone for transport. Discreetly.”

The young man nods. He lifts his hand and runs it through his dark hair. “Of course, Moff.” His green eyes lock with Jadhic’s. “I’ll see who I can put in there.”

Jadhic nods. “Very well. I don’t need to know the details. Also, check and see if a couple dozen units of merchandise have arrived there. They’ll be key to the success of a certain project.” He looks around, sees everyone occupied with their own scheming and conniving. He touches Jirden’s cheek. The officer leans into his touch. On a whim, he asks, “Have you ever been to Mandalore?”

Jirden smiles. “No. I haven’t, your excellency.”

_Too bad._

“I think we’ll get along fine, Major,” Jadhic says. 

After a moment, Jirden smiles. “I almost forgot. There’s a comm waiting on you in your office. On your private channel.” He turns and walks away. 

Jadhic watches him. For another moment, he feels a stab of loss, as the sensation of a small knife blade in his hand moves to the forefront of his memory. A knife blade that he’d only held for a moment, having left it buried under the armpit of one young man from Mandalore. He shakes his head and completes the ritual of memory. He touches his left forearm on the inside. A place where he knows that a scar marks his skin.

A scar that won’t seem to go away. He turns and exits the gathering, walking the few steps to his private office. He shoos the astromech that seems to be working on his computer away. He only gets a glimpse of the droid; the Imperial cog and colors set his mind at ease more than the transparisteel dome, with all of its inner workings visible. 

He activates the datapad lying on the desk with a blinking light. He reads the text, confirming the bona fides. He sends the text to his business partner. The one that he’d sent the young man to watch.

As he sits in the darkness, he wonders if he can soon go back to the name he was born with. The first of three.

* * *

Shyla Merricope stares at the millions of pinpricks in the curtain of space. She closes her eyes, trying to bring order to the chaos that is her thoughts. She thinks of the implications of what Fulcrum had told her. She only knew part of the story of those Corellian totems that the young woman had asked about; she only suspected that the items were related to something that she had been directly involved in, as a prodigy on the Diktat’s staff. 

A prodigy who’d fought her way to Coronet City from the hinterlands of the main continent. Shyla turns as her comm gives off a particular chime. One that she wishes that she’d never taken the initial call from. 

She makes sure that the door is locked to her small cabin and activates the holo.

The man who stares at her from the holo, does so from a familiar, albeit younger face. A face with the same piercing eyes, if in a different hue from his father. 

Garm Bel Iblis waits patiently. She can tell that he is back in a comfortable room on Corellia, home from his responsibilities in the Senate. 

“What is it, Regent?” he asks calmly. “I didn’t think that you’d contact me again. I thought you were too enamored of Bail Organa’s and my father’s idealism. Along with Mon Mothma.”

Shyla smiles tightly in reply. “You’re the only person I know who’d refer to your father as an idealist. I think he might’ve been an idealist at his mother’s breast, but beyond that, I think you’re off base.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem to want to do what’s necessary about the problems of the universe.”

“Maybe because he’s smarter than you, Garm. He’s usually about ten moves ahead of the rest of us. Including, much to my chagrin, me, when I was Diktat.”

“I think he’s mellowed in his old age, Shyla,” he says quietly. “Either that or the influence of one that he sleeps with is clouding his judgement.”

Shyla snorts. “You’re one to talk, Garm. How is the newly installed head of CEC, by the way?” She regrets her words almost as soon as they leave her mouth.

His expression doesn’t change. “She’s fine. Hasn’t had much of a chance to do anything with her new position. She’s fairly miserable though.”

Shyla softens. “How long until she gives birth?”

“Another few weeks,” he replies, a hint of a smile on his face. It fades quickly. “What do you need, Shyla?”

“Do you remember being read in on Project tu suil?” The Middle Corellian words roll off of her tongue. _Hope_. Part of the original title of the one who’d been the architect of the project.

Garm’s face remains free of expression. Finally, he nods. “Yes. But I don’t really have time to spend on pipe-dreams. Pipe dreams that were lost three decades ago.” His eyes grow hard. “As I recall, you were involved in it, even on the periphery.”

She closes her eyes, expecting what comes next. “Another one of your unfinished little projects, Shy. Even before you became Diktat.”

Shyla feels her anger blossom, just as she senses the same emotion in the young woman sitting away from the pickup. She doesn’t look back at Iris Rook. She takes a deep breath. “I was a bit more involved than you give me credit for, Garm. This is rich from someone who was still being an angry pain in the ass for his father. A pain in the ass whose own stubbornness got him kicked out of the same program that a hick from the ‘sticks’ as you called her succeeded in.” She sees her words hit home. Shyla hears his taunts in her mind. 

_Beach-rat._

“Maybe I was an asshole back then. But the fact remains that Hope was still unfinished. Even with the deaths of its progenitors,” he says quietly. He looks away.

Shyla softens, if only a tiny bit. “I know. But there’s a chance that it might be recovered, if I think what happened, actually happened.”

They both fall silent for several moments. Finally, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Regent. I’m not interested in putting any energy in this. I’m more interested in your other failed projects. Like the Katana Fleet.”

She grits her teeth, then shakes her head. “Well, looks like the movement is good. Fulcrum and her people managed to find several of the ships.”

“So? I don’t have them. They don’t do me any good, hidden away by people who won’t take action. Rebellions might be built on hope, but hope isn’t worth two shits if you don’t have the means to express the hope.” 

_That’s why you’ll never get them, she thinks. You’re so full of regret that you kept Corellia out of the war, allowing the darkness to rule, that you’re willing to throw it all away, in one glorious empty gesture._

_What about your own regrets, Shyla?_ the little nagging spice-memory asks.

Garm shakes his head. “I understand that Fulcrum and the Covenant might be distracted by something on Zygerria. Keep them distracted.”

“You call bringing a little light in the darkness by possibly freeing slaves a distraction?” She manages to keep the incredulity from her voice.

“It’s not the bigger picture,” Garm replies. “I need to keep them distracted, Shyla. So that I can build my version of a resistance—free from Mothma and Organa’s idealism.”

She stares at him. “You forget, Garm. I may talk to you in trying to bridge that gap between you and your father—mainly out of the love that I have for you both. But I don’t work for you. Especially since you’re so full of pain and regret about your part in Corellia’s neutrality in the war, you can’t see that you both have elements of the same vision. There’s room for all of you.”

She kills the connection. Her last sight is of his face falling.

Shyla looks down at her hands. She feels Iris walk over to her. Without a word, Iris bends down and circles her arms around Shyla’s middle. 

Idly, as she places her hands on Iris’s, Shyla realizes that she’s not wearing her ever-present gloves. She touches the scars on the wrists. “I guess I’m not going to get anything out of him.” She turns and kisses Iris on the cheek. “Do you have some connections on Mandalore that might be able to inquire about this? Discreetly?”

She hears Iris’s voice near her ear. “Not really. The Saxons have cemented their power. Not really well disposed to me. I think that I can use less direct means. Like the new proprietor of a Bothan information network.”

Shyla snorts. She hears a like sound from Iris, followed by a slight laugh. 

“Cyn Eldar owes me a bit. I’ve managed to conceal a few of her more, shall we say, morally questionable projects away from the notice of her sometime employer on Naboo.”

“Does she know that?” Shyla asks. She feels Iris’s grin against her hair. 

“Why do you think that she’s on hiatus from the Handmaidens? I let slip a couple of them to Queen Kylantha. Anonymously, of course.”

Shyla shakes her head. “I’m impressed, dear,” she says. She pulls Iris next to her on the couch. She rests her head on her protector’s shoulder. “You can wait a bit before pinging her. It feels nice to just sit here and exist with you.”

As Iris pulls her head against Shyla’s, the failed Diktat of Corellia looks out at the stars. She wonders if she will be able to build a better galaxy for that young girl now living on Zeltros, that she’d given birth to, a decade and a half ago. 

Since she and her generation had helped tear the old one down.


	11. Wheeling and Dealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More meetings. One that comes to blows.

Q’ira watches the clientele of the small winebar. She makes sure that the object that brought her to the bar is on the table in front of her. She touches her clutch so that the small, concealable blaster is within her reach, just under the edge of the table. She can feel several other small objects concealed around her body. 

As her eyes scan the bar, her mind travels back to last ‘lessons’ on Dryden Vos’s yacht.

Well, actually, after the lessons. She’d sat across from the woman, watching the woman and her pilot/bodyguard, a young man with differently hued skin, but similar facial features, demolish an entire buffet. Of course, she hadn’t done too badly either. She stifles memories of intense hunger under the streets of Coronet.

As well as more recent memories of hunger and other indignities in the last year or so, after being sold to Sarkin Enneb, then Dryden Vos. 

She’d noticed that the woman—a _Zeltron_ as Dryden had called her—is watching her intently. “You’ve grown up in hunger, haven’t you?”

Q’ira exhales, then takes a sip of her wine. The woman nods at her silence. “I have, too, dear. I was once someone’s property. Just as you are, now.”

Q’ira’s eyes flare, then calm. _By any other name_. The woman smiles and lifts Q’ira’s right wrist. Q’ira tries to conceal the symbol branded there. Instead of staring at it, her instructor begins to stroke it with two fingers. The motion is soothing, almost enough to lull her. 

With her other hand, the woman opens her robe, pulling it away from her right breast. Q’ira’s eyes track downward, knowing what she’ll find, from her earlier lessons.

Another brand in the skin over her ribs, just under her breast.

Q’ira looks away. “I’m not a slave anymore,” the woman says. “I have my own life, my life and my son’s. I control my destiny.” Her eyes grow distant. “As part of my destiny, I work to give others the ability to control their own destiny.” She touches Q’ira’s hand. “My name is Irnalyn. Maybe someday you’ll know me by another name.”

She watches Irnalyn, who looks away. “Always make sure that you take something for yourself. Something to squirrel away.”

Q’ira shakes her head at the memory. She sees a Zygerrian woman standing at her table. The woman is young, and dressed in a rich blue dress, with a black cape that matches the black fur on her head. Intense green eyes stare at her. Q’ira rises, but moves the puck to the center of the table and activates it. It begins to blink.

Without a word, the Zygerrian woman opens the hand without a wineglass in it. She places another puck on the table. 

The lights sync. Q’ira smiles as a holo of three medium-sized freighters—GR-75s projects above her puck. 

The woman nods. “Zara,” she says. 

“Q’ira.” She narrows her eyes, hoping she can put enough intimidation in her expression. “Crimson Dawn.”

Zara’s eyes flare for a moment—only for a moment. She nods and takes a sip of her wine. “Good to know. Do you know what the job is?”

“I only know that we’re moving units of some sort. Do you have a buyer yet?”

“I’m not in charge of that part, but I understand that there is interest. From Corellia.”

Q’ira feels her blood go cold. She manages to keep her expression neutral. “How many units?”

“Up to a thousand. It depends on the mortality rate.”

Q’ira grits her teeth, thinking of what her own price had been, and the possibility of her own ‘mortality rate.’ “Twenty-five percent,” Q’ira says. She manages not to wince at the quickness of the bid.

Zara smiles. “My dear, you’ll have to do better than that. We could buy our own ships for that and still have credits to burn.” Her eyes narrow. “Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

She is quiet for a moment. “I think that might work. I’ll have to get approval, but I’ve been given some leeway.”

“Very well,” Zara says. They both fall silent, as if at a loss for what to do next. Q’ira is only thinking of Dryden’s last words to her. _Not a credit less than ten percent_. She wonders which one of them is less experienced at haggling.

“May I know who from Corellia is interested?”

Zara stares at her, her green eyes flashing. “I did say, no questions asked.”

Q’ira returns her flashing stare. “I’d like to know who is who, especially from Corellia. There aren’t too many there who might have that kind of scratch.”

Zara falls silent, as Q’ira contemplates her danger if this spoils the deal, for her own curiosity.

“I will only say that it doesn’t appear to be a syndicate of any kind. I think that CEC is involved. They need labor.”

Q’ira is able again to appear nonplussed. Inside, she doesn’t know if she should be angry or overjoyed that Lady Proxima’s scum aren’t involved. 

Zara finishes her wine and rises. She looks at the small plate of finger foods in front of Q’ira and pulls out credits. She waves to the server, who takes her money. “I’ll be in touch.” She reaches out runs her fingers over Q’ira’s cheek, her eyes soft for an instant. They grow hard again. “Just in case you get an idea of swindling us, the Imperial Moff is our partner. Your organization might not suffer, but you will, my dear.” Her eyes calm “Tomorrow. At the Imperial Residence. Moff Sander-Calanthe will meet you.” A flourish of her cape, and she is gone.

Q’ira pulls out her datapad and taps in that name. She doesn’t bother looking at the information. The holo shows a human of middle age, with a full head of gray hair, with eyes a sharp gray-blue. She raises her eyebrows at the engaging smile in the holo, something you don’t often see in official Imperial portraits. She sends the information into the darknet.

As she waits for an acknowledgement, she wonders how easy it would be to shave that additional five percent off from the fee. Irnalyn’s soft voice sounds in her mind, as she thinks of the words of her last lesson. 

_Always make sure you take something for yourself._

Her comm signals with the code for a secure conversation. She flips her sunshades down from her hair; her vision is filled with the sensation of glowing yellow eyes with red and black patterns surrounding them. Her stomach lurches with instant fear.

The Founder stares at her. “I got your information, Q’ira,” he says in his soft voice. “No matter what your mission, I have something more important for you. Something that Vos doesn’t need to know anything about, at least in detail. I will let him know that you have another purpose. When the time is right, I’ll join you there.”

The comm shuts down. Q’ira rises, trying to remain calm. She suddenly wonders if her chances of not being strangled or vivisected at the end of this mission have suddenly decreased.

As she walks out, she passes a young woman in a booth. She gets a brief impression of brown eyes—eyes with something of a sparkle under bronze curls. The young woman looks up her up and down, giving her a warm smile. In spite of her fear, Q’ira returns the expression.

Meglann Florlin allows the smile to fade. She raises her glass to her lips, makes a face. She wonders to herself if she could find a glass of ale, or even better, the Corellian whisky that seems to flow around her found family like mother’s milk. A drink that she has finally begun to appreciate without coughing.

She leaves her glass, dropping credits on the table. As she exits into the afternoon sun, she looks around, then touches her ear. 

“Hey, No-no. Looks like I got the other player. I’ll see what I can find out. Expect a call from the seller for a meet tomorrow.”

* * *

“You want to let me into the enclosure.”

Ahsoka drops her hand as she hears the muttered refrain from the Zygerrian guard. He opens the gate to the old slave enclosure. She moves in, checking the small datapad that Phygus Baldrick had given her. She grins as she remembers the smirk when she took it. For that reason, among others, she never takes it into the refresher, especially when she’s taking a shower. It’s also usually kept in a box, buried under clothing in her bedroom. 

She punches a button on the ‘pad; she hears the pop that signals that any monitoring devices have been disabled.

Ahsoka searches the cells quickly. The search is quick because there are no slaves or prisoners in the cells. As she slips into an alcove in the shadows, she does denote a great deal of dust, as well a large number of Zygerrian guards and overseers—too large for no slaves for ‘processing.’ She runs her hand under her masked hood, trying unsuccessfully to reach an annoying itch near her right lekku. 

A quick leap through a skylight and she is on the roof, then on top of the wall. She leaps over to the lower wall of the Imperial Residence. For a brief second, she studies the construction area in the large cleared field on the other side of the Residence. She narrows her eyes at the vaguely domelike shape of the rising frame. She knows from her visits to other worlds that this will soon supplant the Residence as the Imperial base on this world. One that would be entirely self-contained. The Residence might only be kept for ceremonial and entertainment purposes.

She shakes her head, clearing it. She closes her eyes, crouching down on the wall. She doesn’t reach out to a mystical force, but to an evolutionary one. Her echolocation paints a picture of her surroundings in that part of her mind. As she concentrates, melding her hearing with the gift, she wonders what her path would have been if Plo Koon hadn’t Found her, slightly over two decades ago, now. Would she have been an Elder of the Hunt, or at least midlevel teacher? Would she have had other skills to be used, skills that would’ve taken her away from her huntfast? She worries her upper lip with her incisor. Another path might’ve brought her here to an enclosure much like this. As a slave who could touch the Force, but without the knowledge to use it properly.

_Ahh, there_ , she thinks. Her mind wraps around the Togruta-rapid heartbeat that she detects in the building near her. She feels her teeth clinch as she detects another one, on the periphery of the building.

Ahsoka jumps down to the street. As she does, she is slammed into the wall by a large, almost immovable object. Another large form grabs her arm. As she prepares to open up the fabled _can of whoopass,_ as certain Corellians of her acquaintance would call it, she senses something familiar about the two overgrown about-to-be-recipients of the can-opening. She curses to herself.

She still opens it, slamming both of them into each other, then against opposite sides of the wall. As she does, their hoods open slightly. 

Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure stare at her. She hears an unmuffled curse behind her. 

She turns and fixes her gaze on the Lethan Twi’lek, who returns the look. She narrows her eyes at the Face, as the young woman is known—the wife of the Zabrak half of these two. 

As well as an employee of Fulcrum.

For now.

“You just can’t get good help these days,” she hears herself say. In stereo with the Face as she stares vibroknives at the two behemoths.


	12. Finding A Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing words and fighting words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More wonderful fanart from @rebekahs-art!
> 
> Tame, though. Just part of a dysfunctional family portrait. :=)

Draq’ sips his de-caf, thinking of family. He watches the young girl burrow carefully next to her mother on the extra-large hospital bed, as both finally fall asleep. His look softens; he feels his thoughts calm as Ala and Jamelyn relax. He turns and walk out of the door, closing it gently.

He bypasses his admin droid, plugged into her station. She, as usual in these days of retirement, ignores him. Draq’ walks into his study. He sits down near the fireplace. The tiny, red-furred Drall eyes him calmly, as he brings his glass to his lips.

Draq’ moves his de-caf towards his lips, then makes a face at the coldness. The being who’d recently told him to switch to at least half of his intake of caf to this substance, gives him a toothy grin. He places the cup on the end table and moves over to a sideboard. He lifts one of decanters and pours himself a healthy slug of the good Alderaani brandy, eschewing the whisky of his world and its accompanying pitcher of water. He doesn’t even bother offering any to Hegridhara, knowing the contempt that he treats liquors that aren’t the vicious substance from his world, the one that fills his own glass. The one that would cause the eyes of even a hardened human drinker like Draq’ Bel Iblis to permanently cross.

He does lift another decanter of clear liquid and moves over to Heg, topping off his glass with nak.

Draq’ sits and looks at the fire. After several moments, he doesn’t turn to Heg, but asks, “What’s Ala’s prognosis?”

Heg takes his own sweet time to answer, but Draq’ knows, after forty years of friendship, that one of the preeminent physicians and medical researchers in the galaxy isn’t stalling. “Not good, I’m afraid,” he starts. “We don’t really have a huge body of research on survivors of Sith-lightning that aren’t Force users.”

Draq’ nods. “Yeah. Because most don’t survive. Garen and Ala were the only two examples.” He closes his eyes. “At least until Garen was killed by his mother with a blaster.” His mind tracks immediately to that scene. Garen, his nephew and half-brother to Bryne Covenant, slumping after taking a blaster bolt meant for Ahsoka Tano, from Mailyn Blackthorn, the Hag of the Blackthorns. An instant before Tano had deflected her next bolt back into Mailyn’s body.

“I don’t know how long I can keep Ala alive with what I’m trying,” Hegridhara says. “The lightning somehow affects the genetic structure of her organs. It took awhile, almost a decade, but her organs started to break down. Only the enhanced bacta infusions that we give her, along with the mix of mild ruson waves seems to restore them. But I’m seeing readings that her organs might not be repairing at the cellular level like they were.”

“How long?”

“Could be a year or so, but it’s hard to say.”

“Is she in pain?”

Heg is silent again before answering. “No. We give her a cocktail of pain meds and energy restorers with each weekly treatment. Her energy is still depleted, though, just before the next treatment.” He smiles softly, with no teeth. “Jamelyn’s presence helps a great deal.” The softer expression morphs into a toothy grin. “Plus I think she’s been hanging around those damned stubborn Blackthorns and Bel Iblises too long. It’s catching.”

Draq’ matches his grin. “Might’ve been transferred by sex from Garen.” He grows serious. “So what does she say? Does she know?”

“She does. She wants to know everything. She’s expressed some desire to go home. To Serenno. She hasn’t been there in years.”

“But you don’t recommend it, do you, Heg?” Draq’ asks quietly.

“No. Hyperspace does have an effect on our bodies, at the cellular level. It is usually miniscule; it’s not harmful unless you spent a year or so in continuous hyperspace, in most species. But with her compromised cellular immune system, a trip to Serreno could kill her.”

They are both silent at that, until Heg speaks up again. “I understand that there is a reason she wants to go back—not just to die on her homeworld.”

Draq’ raises an eyebrow, but waits for Heg to explain.

“There’s information among the Gainsefields, that Dooku might not have actually been part of their family. It’s important to her. She wants to know that there isn’t that capacity for evil in her family.”

Draq’ breathes out. “It doesn’t matter, really. We know the good person she is. We know Garen—it took a while for him to realize it, but he wasn’t cut out to be the avaricious asshole that Mailyn wanted him to be.”

“It’s important to her.” Heg contemplates his drink, then takes a deep breath.

“You’ve been looking into how to help her. Either cure her, prolong her time with Jamelyn, or to get her to Serenno.”

Heg smiles. “You know me, too well, Dragon. Yes, I’ve been trying to correspond with one who is trying to stay off of the Empire’s radar. One who is living in Wild Space. He’s actually been looking into this, discreetly, along with a certain medical relative of your daughter.”

Draq’ nods. “Dek Antilles and Sina Faygan’ii. Queen Breha’s nephew and Dani’s cousin.” He smiles at the memories that that last name brings forward. “She’s named for Dani’s mother.” He shakes those memories away. “What do you need?”

“I need someone to find and contact Dek. I believe he and his partner are very good at not being found.”

“You could say that, seeing that his lover is a fugitive ISB agent. One who doesn’t want to get involved. We need to find Dav Kolan on another matter.” He pushes a button. “We’ll look into finding him. We’ll let him contact Sina, to maintain their discretion.”

A young woman walks in the room. She is dressed for bed, but still alert. Heg finishes his drink, then rises. Draq’ rises as well. He goes to his knees, bringing him closer to his friend’s height. They embrace, then Heg is gone, with a nod for the young woman.

She waits patiently, a questioning expression on her bronze features.

“I need you to see about finding Dav Kolan. Bryne will interested, as he might have a connection to what he’s working on with Fulcrum on Zygerria. Dani will need to know how to meet Dek Antilles. Find one, and you’ll find the other.”

Canda Rook nods. “Okay, alor,” the word betraying her heritage. Only Niner, the acerbic admin droid gets to call him ‘boss’. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. I need you to get in touch with Shyla Merricope. I may need her to contact yet another scumbag.”

He sees the look cross her face. A definite look of distaste. “What?”

“Shyla’s a loose cannon. I think I’ve said before that you need to cut ties.”

He stares at her, giving her his best Dragon look.

She returns his gaze, if not the look, with no hint of fear. Much like many who know him.

He sighs and rubs his face. “I know. But I have to use the weapons at my disposal, Canda’rika.”

She softens at the use of the nickname. “Okay,” is all that she says.

“Besides, you have someone in her orbit now. Someone that you can work.”

Her gaze turns more baleful. “Maybe,” she finally remarks, examining her fingernails, “but there may be blasterfire involved. Sisters don’t always see eye-to-eye.”

As she turns away, he grins at her return expression. Through the look, he gets an inkling of what she’d look like in beskargam, with two blasters firing at anyone who’d pissed her off. Including his nephew.

* * *

Ahsoka glares at Rhayme and Kruvure. She manages to keep the Face—her employee, Solstice at least for the moment. out of the glare.

“So why, when I get the idea that something is going completely ass-over-tin-cup, do I always seem to find you two ingrates involved?”

Kruvure stares back at her. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, little girl,” he says. Ahsoka is able to keep from giving in to her base instincts at that response.

“I would argue that when things go that way for us, you or one of your minions is involved. Usually the teenager with the blaster bigger than she is, here lately. Where’ve you been keeping her?”

“I keep her in a glass box that says ‘break glass in case the recommended daily allowance of assholes is exceeded’.”

**The Recommended Allowance**

**From second left to right: Sorentin Rhayme, the Face, and Gral Kruvure. Bonus on Left, Naathanan Betten’ii (Dani’s grandmother and first captain of the Blood Bone Order)**

The Face lets one side of her mouth quirk upwards. It falls when Fulcrum turns her blue eyes on her.

“You’re not out of the woods yet, yourself, babe,” Ahsoka says.

Face stares back at her. “So you’re the only one that lets your family interfere in your business? You knew who they were, girl,” she says, her anger growing as her lekku begin to twitch. “You know that even though they’re ingrates, they’re my ingrates. So get over yourself. Fire me or spank me. I don’t care which.”

Ahsoka stares at her for a full two minutes, or at least by her estimation. Her lips twitch, until finally, she feels her body relax from its tension. “Okay, Solstice. You’re off the hook for now. But these two will always be on my shit list. Rhayme, because of your daughter, who is one of those family members Face is poking me about.” She shifts her vision to Kruvure. “You, because you have on two different occasions, on two different capers, on two different worlds, stabbed me or shot me. You compete for the top spot.” She turns to Face, allowing the Smirk to flow onto her features, for just a second. “Spank you?”

Face doesn’t miss a beat. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t visualize it.”

Ahsoka doesn’t reply, especially as Face chooses that precise moment to turn her backside towards Ahsoka and runs her hands over the curve. Ahsoka is sure that she doesn’t stare at it, before turning to Sorentin’s throat-clearing.

“So what are you doing here, sweetie?” Sorentin asks softly. Ahsoka raises an eyebrow marking, but lets it slide. “I’ve already seen Nola and Meglann here, so there’s clumsy do-gooding afoot.”

“Clumsy?” Ahsoka asks, as she sees Gral Kruvure close his eyes and shake his head. Face exhales, then hauls off and punches Rhayme in his meaty bicep.

“Ow! What’d I say?”

Gral opens his eyes. “We’re here on family business,” he replies, glancing at Face, who says nothing, but looks away. He jerks his thumb at Rhayme. “His wayward wife.”

“Which one?” Ahsoka asks.

Sorentin growls, at Face’s giggle and Ahsoka’s neutral expression. “The only one. Tessika.”

Ahsoka curses. Her memory flies to a Mandalorian farming colony, the place that she’d thought she’d left Face in charge of. A place where she’d nearly died, as well as one she was forced to declare a former friend and ally as an enemy.

Tessika Rhayme, or Jan t’Kryze, as she was known, had been running her own con on the world’s inhabitants.

She’d also remembered that Ahsoka was a Jedi, from her time on Mandalore, at the time of the siege. When a stray artillery shell had set Tessika and other prisoners free from the holding facility.

“So what have you got her doing?” Ahsoka asks, looking at Sorentin.

“Me? I haven’t seen her since that time on Stornan. When you and Gerrera and the Wrens nearly laid waste to the world.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “Nope. Use your words, Rhayme. You and I remember that a whole lot differently. So don’t blame me, especially after you involved me, when you and Calrissian swindled my money away from the Stornani.”

Sorentin starts to speak, but discretion outweighs getting the last word.

“I’ll ask again. What the hell is Tessika doing here?”

Gral looks at Sorentin, who throws up his arms and turns away. He fixes Ahsoka with what he thinks passes for a neutral expression. “She’s doing something for her mother,” he says in a flat voice.

Ahsoka didn’t expect that answer. “Who is her mother?”

“A Mandalorian, or least by Foundling. A woman named Chraina Loren. At one time, she was an Unwanted. Just like Tessika was. But she married someone named Loren—someone who got run off from Mandalore and found himself some world in Wild Space to be a warlord of.”

For some reason, Ahsoka’s head starts to ache. Her heart twists as she remembers this particular stabbing ache only one other time in her life.

When she’d met Soma Jess on Kessel. The same place in her skull, an ache that penetrates to her Force sense.

“What is she doing?” she asks tersely.

Sorentin is quiet for a half-minute. “She’s looking for some artifact. She’s a pretty good acquisitions specialist.”

“Meaning a thief,” Ahsoka says. “Do you have a holo of her?” She gives into the nagging feeling that had started with the pain.

He does a fairly good impression of indignant anger. “Why the hell would I have a picture of my mother-in-law?”

“Because you and your family, with the exception of Lassa, are strange as hell. What can you tell me about this Chraina?” She moves up to him and stares into his eyes.

He breathes out, then looks at Gral, then at Face. He looks back at Ahsoka when he sees no help from either.

“She’s some sort of witch. Something to do with the Force. She was originally born into a group of witches somewhere out in the Outer Rim. The Quelli sector.”

Ahsoka realizes that she’s massaging her nose; her eyes are closed. Where have I heard that before? she asks herself.

Her eyes snap open. She remembers something else. “Since you’re here, you can do something for me.”

The two behemoths start to protest. She raises her hand. “Nope. This is a partial repayment for being a pain in my ass. Here’s what you’re going to do.”


	13. Daddy and Mommy Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threats and aspirations.

The fog begins to lift slowly, as light begins to penetrate her brain. The young woman tries to let the gauze fall back over her brain; she doesn’t want to go to school today. There’s a sale at the local shopping village that has several bar—

Jillan Bykos jerks upright in the bed; the memories come flooding into her brain. Memories of the night before, or at least she thought that it was the night before. She squeezes her eyes shut, not daring to reopen them. 

She knows that she has to. Slowly, very slowly, the light peeks into her brain. She feels her eyebrow markings, the two small dots centered under the zigzag on her forehead, rise, nearly into her lekku.

The room is not what she expected to wake up in, given the circumstances of how she was violently snatched from her own tiny pallet in the common living room in the wilds of Shili. 

She can only hope that her grandparents are alright, but she does wonder how they’d not woken up during her struggle with the interlopers.

Jillan begins to run her hands over her body, checking for any injuries, other than the dull ache in her head and the sharp pain in the side of her neck, where her attackers had injected her. Her hands fall on her neck, on a thin metal form. She runs her fingers all the way around, the metal encircles her throat. 

She throws the covers off of her bed and swings her bare feet to the floor. She makes a beeline to the small door, hoping she wouldn’t wind up in a closet. She stares at herself in the mirror. Everything seems to be in place, confirming her hands-on examination. She takes a second to examine for things other than injuries. She confirms that she is still in the nightgown that she’d put on whatever the night before was. The silvered metal circlet is just above the open neck of the garment, a small green light blinking every so often on the small panel on the front. 

Jillan looks down the front of the expensive garment; she’d refused to put on the skimpy hunt clothing that her grandmother had offered, a loose tunic that could be tied over one or both shoulders, or knotted at the hip to keep the arms free, even though she’d worn only a little bit more to certain parties that she’d attended without her father’s knowledge. During the day, she’d worn simple, more modern sleeveless tunics that she’d seen others wearing in the little village—the huntfast as it was called—those not engaged in the hunt. 

She looks down at her feet; one thing that she enjoyed adapting to was the belief that Togruta were made to go barefoot. She could swear that she did feel some sort of connection to the world when her apparently tough feet bottoms had connected with the dirt. 

She returns her gaze to the mirror. Her silver eyes, something that her father didn’t share with her, gaze back at her; they both seem to be clear. She stops, shaking her head, rolling her eyes at the examination of herself.

In the past several years, she’d tried her hand at writing, something that she’d hoped would keep her from the aimless path of the shallow life with her friends. As a result, it sometimes seemed like everything she looked at became an exercise in descriptiveness, an attempt to ‘show, not tell’. 

_Come on, girl_ , she thinks ruefully, _this isn’t the great Togruta novel. You’ve been kidnapped. Not the time._

What would the heroine of one of your stories do?

_She’d probably pee, first._

After that detail is taken care of, she walks out into the room. She goes to the window and pulls the curtains open. She realizes that she is in a somewhat ornate building, overlooking a city that appears to be on a broad plateau, itself overlooking vast plains. She sees a shadow sail over her. Her eyes widen as they lock onto the winged creatures circling the city and the plains. She exhales as she gets a closer look at one of the riders. 

Riders that bear a striking resemblance to her glimpse of those who’d taken her. 

The door opens behind her. A human clad in a dark uniform, with a strange, flared helmet walks in. It is the man who follows her that draws her attention. 

A dignified older man, gazing calmly at her with gray eyes—a color not too far off from her own silver. She tries to remember the basic word for the growth on top of his head, a growth that shares the color of his eyes. In fact, with his gray-green clothing, her whole sense of him is nothing but that grayness, a grayness broken only by the little colored plastic squares on his chest. An idle thought enters her mind, that humans would probably think the man handsome, but she has no frame of reference. Especially since he has no impressive montrals or lekku.

“Good morning, my dear. Welcome to Zygerria. I’m your host. I hope that your stay will be comfortable. It’s a pleasure to welcome the Warden of the Hunt, to our little corner of the Empire.”

“Why am I here?” She sees his eyes sharpen at the interruption. The hardness does nothing to increase her fear, so she forges ahead. “Why have you taken me?”

His eyes calm. “Because I and some other parties on your world wish to see you demonstrate your skills—the skills that you were chosen for. Those certain parties think that you can be an asset with the masses for their, shall we say, ambitions.”

Jillan stares at him with incredulity. She slowly paints a smile on her face. “I think they, and you, will be very disappointed. I’m not even sure why I was chosen. I’ve never hunted anything more than my own pleasures and joys.”

She sees his words strike home, as the hard look returns. She can’t resist a further dig. “I guess the joke might be on you.”

He smiles, a smile that shows absolutely no warmth. “We’ll see. I would warn you that your life might depend on what skills you suddenly develop, if you’re going to be of use to my partners and me.” He spins on his heels and leaves, the armed human leaving with him. They leave the door open. 

She walks out into the sunlight. Jillan breathes in the warm air, tinged with the scent of wildflowers and other plants. She realizes that she stands in an enclosed garden, a garden that appears to be on the roof of the building. She sees several similar armed humans around the perimeter. 

Jillan feels her eyes tear, as the enormity of her situation hits. She can move around the garden, but she is with no doubt a prisoner. She hears the human’s words in her mind. 

She wonders if the joke is on her. She sits down on a bench, her eyes watering. Jillan Bykos wonders that if she isn’t useful, whether her life will be guaranteed to be a short one.

As she fights her tears, she doesn’t see an older Togruta walk into the enclosure, holding a broom. 

Dala Ti’s pale blue eyes are soft as they watch the young woman struggle with her emotions.

* * *

Bryne steps into the entry port of the _Jamestyn’s Hope_ , to the salute of the officers there. Sylvanus Helm, a former (or at least detached) Corellian Security Deputy Constable, smiles warmly at him. The young officer, known almost universally as Obie, dips his head, his large ears and bright red hair his most distinguishing features. He of course blushes under Bryne’s gaze. 

Bryne holds out his hand, shaking Obie’s then turning to the very young woman standing behind him. A broad smile splits her face, her mass of dark curls is tied up, in regulation fashion. Her left hand holds the old-fashioned telescope under her arm, a symbol the galaxy-wide of the Officer of the Deck. 

He fights the urge to pull Melis Nath into his arms, the young woman who’d been the object of his search on his mother’s world a short while back. He nods, smiling slightly at her before turning back to Obie.

“So, is your Captain on her ass in her cabin, while everyone else is working?” he asks with an acerbic grin. 

Obie returns it. “Always, your Eminence. You don’t know how much I carry her.”

Bryne laughs at Obie’s progress. Even a few months ago, he would’ve gotten just the blush and his eyes locking on his feet. 

“She’s in the engineering spaces with our new engineer, who’s been doing wonders with our speed and consumption ratios. He smiles at Melis. “Our new midshipman doesn’t seem to be doing too bad either.” He grows serious. “Melis, you’re relieved. Take the Covenant to see the Captain and your mother. I’m sure they need to catch up. Especially on his Foundling’s progress at being something besides an Imperial stooge.”

Melis rolls her eyes, then hands the telescope to another crewmember. She waits until she is clear of the quarterdeck, before slipping her arm through his. He reaches over and kisses her on her cheek. “So how’re you doing, love?” he asks. 

“Loving life, Bryne,” she replies without hesitation. “I feel like I’m in my place. It’s good to be getting to know my abeeyeh.” Bryne smiles at the unselfconscious use of the word from her mother’s adopted culture. The Zeltron word for ‘mother’. 

Melis looks down for a moment. “I’ve lost so much time with her.” Bryne pulls her closer as they walk. 

“I know, sweetie,” he replies, “but treasure and cherish every moment with her.” He pushes the vision that he’d seen, if that’s what it was, of his own mother, followed, in rapid succession by the faces of his found family. Especially the one foremost in his mind, the one whose Force signature is showing itself to him this morning.

The door to the engineering spaces snap open. He grins as he sees the tall woman, maybe a few years older than him, turn and give him a broad, irrepressible smile. The expression is matched on her daughter’s, for the first time, he sees the full wattage of that warmth on the face of the original, as well as the younger version. 

“Hello,” Ardalen Nath says. “I heard we were taking you to Takodana. Never been there. I hear my mother—Melis’ grandmother—made a name for herself there, back in the day.”

He laughs. “Yeah. So much so that Maz Kanata ain’t exactly welcoming of the Blood Bone Order, there, these days. Although it might be the present Captain’s sterling personality that does it.” Bryne looks at Melis. “Hey, sweetie, could I talk to your Mom for a bit? Nothing major, just something from when she was on Kessel.”

Melis’s smile doesn’t falter. “I guess so, Bryne.” Her smile turns much more devilish. “You are, after all, technically my guardian. I’ve been told that I have to obey you in all things, by your uncle and Drop.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Like they ever have.”

Ardalen’s own smile matches her daughter’s in its tone. “Well, that remains to be seen.” She gives him a suggestive look. “You still have to pass my test as to whether you’re worthy enough to be my daughter’s guardian. A test that my abeeyeh would be proud of.”

He sees Melis’s deep blush. “I’m still learning a lot of things about Zeltrons—even adopted ones,” she says quietly. Her mother reaches down and kisses her as she turns and leaves the room.

“She’s a good kid,” Bryne observes. “She’ll only grow around you, Ardalen. And your adopted family.”

“Yours as well, Bryne,” Ardalen replies. “Let me guess. You want to know about Soma Jess.”

He raises his eyebrow. She shakes her head, placing her hand on his cheek. They exit the engine room as well, heading towards the bridge. “I suspect a bit about you, Bryne, as well as that powerful young woman who helped rescue me. I saw her talking briefly with Jess before she left us all, with Kal and Malaky and Chi. To tell you the truth, in all of the weeks and months I was with her, I didn’t really get to know too much about her. Only what she let me know.” She stops walking for a moment. Bryne turns to her and takes her hand in his, allowing her time to think.

“It’s strange. At times, she seemed almost fuzzy in my vision. Like she was on a different plane. I can’t explain it. I don’t think she was only there because she was a prisoner. She was very interested in coaxium transport. While there, I was doing research on making the transportation safer, so it might be more lucrative to someone with that interest.”

She turns as another woman walks up to them. Bryne turns and looks into the dark eyes of Shyla Merricope. She says nothing. After a moment, Ardalen draws him to her and gives him a kiss. “I’ll get us started on our way.”

He and Shyla stare at each other. “You here to check up on me, Eminence?”

“Not a goddamned bit, your Excellency,” he returns. “I’ve got a job to do. So do you.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t appreciate the micromanaging, Covenant. Especially by Fulcrum. Somehow, I led Corellia for ten years. I didn’t have some twenty-something second guessing my every move.”

He grins tightly. “Well, we didn’t have some middle-aged ex-politician making stupid-ass moves that risked other people’s lives, before, either.”

They stare at one another. Shyla starts to speak. Bryne holds up his hand. “No, Shyla. You needn’t try to go to the other parent and ask for what you want when the other gives you the wrong answer. Fulcrum and I are on the same page.” He exhales, then pulls her into his arms. He feels her stiffen, then relax, her arms going around his back, holding him just as tightly. “You don’t have anything to prove to anyone, Shy,” he whispers. “We both have a tremendous amount of respect for you. For what you’ve done and what you’ve gone through.”

He feels her lift her face from his chest and push away slightly, still holding him. She smirks at him. 

“Should I call you daddy?”

Their shared laughter is a welcome sound. “I was going to say, is there anything I can do on Zygerria?” she asks.

He looks at her, then nods. “Ask your mom.”

Tamsin finds both of them laughing in the passageway, as they all feel the ship—the ship named for his father—shift into hyperspace.

* * *

Tessika Rhayme watches from the shadows of the balcony as the Imperial leaves his quarters. She waits for several minutes, to make sure. As she does, she thinks about how her name and her life had migrated from Tessika Loren to Tessika Rhayme in the last three decades or so.

She closes her eyes as she hears her mother’s voice in her mind. “You owe me,” Chraina says. “I made you.” She’d managed not to tell the woman that her ‘making’ of her ended when she squeezed Tessika from between her legs.

Tessika Loren had truly been born when a stray Republic artillery shell had broken the processing facility that she was being held in open. When she’d escaped in the night during the Siege of Mandalore.

Another version had been born on an agricultural world known as Stornan, when she taken on the mantle of leadership for an offshoot of Clan Kryze. Before a young Force user and a large clonetrooper, among others, had ended that chance. With help from her new husband and coach for grifting, Sorentin Rhayme and his Iridonian partner, Gral Kruvure. 

Tessika wipes her forehead, pushing her red hair out of her eyes. She touches the lock on the balcony door. The door swings open. She steps in, her eyes searching the room. Ah. There it is.

She walks over to the sideboard; she seizes the decanter on top and pours a splash of the red liquid into a glass. She sips it and makes a face. She lifts the small travel brochure and rolls her eyes at the aurabesh word.

Zeltros. 

She pours the remainder of the welcome-wine from that world into the nearest plant. She wipes the edge of the glass, removing any trace where she’d touched it, but doesn’t bother wiping the wine residue out. She always leaves evidence that someone had been in any room that she burgles, but nothing that could be traced to her DNA. 

Tessika crouches down and slowly opens the wooden doors to the sideboard. She exhales, then closes her eyes and shakes her head. _I was afraid of that,_ she thinks. Apparently ol’ Sander had improved the security setup on the container of his ill-gotten gains. 

She would have to come back with a little different setup. As she takes a holo of the safe; her comm buzzes. 

She reads the text, then closes the sideboard. She can hear the sound of footsteps in the corridor. As he makes it back to the balcony, she pulls a tiny vial from between her breasts under her top. She holds her breath and smashes it between her fingers. She blows out her breath; the glowing green cloud moves towards the door, which is just about to open.

Tessika closes the balcony, replacing the lock and fades back into the shadows. She turns to the street, just in time to see two large, very familiar shapes—maybe too familiar—seize a woman in a cloak and hood. 

A hood with two distinctive high projections from the woman’s head. Tessika Rhayme watches as her husband and his partner bundle the Togruta back into the shadows. She watches as a young Twi’lek woman directs them. A young woman that she recognizes. 

_Kruvure’s so-called wife._


	14. A Different Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing—both sublime and violent.

Jadhic stretches before opening his eyes; his nostrils flaring at the scent of his personal stash of Lorrdian mountain-grown caf. He opens his eyes; the sun warms his face. His eyes fall on his bed companion, his muscular form standing directly in the sunlight. 

“Morning,” the young officer says. Jadhic’s eyes play over the man’s body. His foggy brain, still grasping for coherence after the high quality naf-spice that he’d ingested, searches for the man’s name. 

Jirden. Virclav Jirden of Corellia. 

Major Jirden walks over with a steaming, fragrant cup and sets it on the night-table. He reaches down and kisses Jadhic. Jadhic closes his eyes and accepts the kiss, allowing their tongues to advance and retreat, as the military types would say. 

As they continue, a bright green light flashes in the edge of his consciousness. His mind trips from the pleasure to one of the opposite. To a burning world, as he looks down on another young man lying on the ground, rich, arterial blood flowing from a wound under his arm. He feels the ache in his left forearm from the harvesting probe. He sees himself, as if in a dream, injecting the sample, along with its binding agent into the young man’s carotid. He looks down at his rich clothing, now on the cooling corpse. The velvet bag is heavy in the pocket of the simple jumpsuit that he now wears. 

The sound of the artillery shell behind him cuts into his memory. He places his hand on Jirden’s chest and gently pushes him away. “Go, lad,” he says gently, “get your shower. I need to think about some things.”

There is a slight flash in the green eyes, but Jirden nods. “Very well. But if you get tired of thinking, you can join me.” He reaches below the covers and strokes for a moment. 

“I might just do that, lad. Corellian for breakfast might be enjoyable.”

In a moment, Jirden is in the refresher, the sound of the water hitting Jadhic’s consciousness. His smile fades, as if a switch cuts off. He rises from the bed and lifts his robe over his body; he walks towards the slightly open door to the sitting room. 

Four women sit on the couch, with varying degrees of snark, as well as a hint of confusion on their faces. The one who is familiar, rises, a wide smile on her face. “I’ve brought some guests, your Excellency. Guests who are interested in our little project.” 

The other three women rise as well. All are human, and all under the age of twenty-five, he suspects. 

In fact, two of them most probably haven’t reached twenty yet. All three of them stare at his middle. One of them, probably not the youngest, but not the oldest, has the good upbringing to blush, but she continues to gaze at him with an uplifted side of her mouth. 

He feels the draft at the point of their attention. As well as the active blood flow. Without a word, he completes the belting of the robe.

Zara catches his eye and nods slightly. She turns and motions to the tallest of the women, one who is at least as tall as Jadhic. Probably the oldest, as well, he thinks. She walks over to him and extends her hand. As he takes it, he stares into her dark eyes, then looks over her sharp features, features that hint at a great deal of shrewd sarcasm behind them, but certainly very pleasing to his practiced eye. 

Without a bit of shame, his eyes move down her body. His eyebrows raise as he realizes that she is wearing a flowing, revealing suit—one that is familiar to him in his perusal—some would describe it as obsessive—of certain travel and business brochures. He wonders how she came to be wearing Zeltron business attire, especially the version that seems to consist of about three meters of a wide silken scarf, placed strategically around her body, under an accompanying jacket.

“This is Nola Tamsin,” Zara says, “and her pilot.” His eyes move over to the indicated direction. He repeats the examination; he finds that she definitely meets his approval, although dressed more plainly in spacer’s attire, albeit with the shirt unbuttoned a few buttons, to aid in that examination. His eyes return to her face, with its fair skin and eyes with a hint of more laughter behind them, when his own eyes fall on the empty holster on her right thigh. A holster for what appears to be a very large blaster. Her right hand rests on the belt, not far from where the butt would be, if his guards hadn’t relieved her of it. He has no doubt that she and her boss are both armed. As he starts to move away, the young woman extends her right hand to him. 

“Ina,” she says. He takes the hand, can feel just a hint of steel in the grip, but she doesn’t squeeze to prove the steel. 

He comes to the last young woman, the shortest, and probably the youngest. She returns his level gaze, her wide mouth in a straight, business-like line. After a moment, she glances down at where the interloper had reared its head and allows her mouth to crease in a smile. Her eyes show a tiny bit of promise, but also the same danger that the other two. “Q’ira,” she says. “My employer, Dryden Vos, sends his compliments. We’ve got the ships that you might need.” The smile opens more. “I overheard that you might have an appreciation for Corellians. I recently emigrated from there.” She looks at the other two. “I promise I’ve gotten the stench off of me.”

He ignores the sally, instead focusing on the name of her employer. He doesn’t visibly blanch, he knows, even as he glances down at her stylish clothes. His blood runs cold at the large golden charm hanging from her neck. A golden circle, divided in the middle, edged in red, resembling nothing more than a rising sun. 

He maintains his cool at the mention of that name; he does identify that her clothing hides its own promise. “Pleased to make the acquaintance of Crimson Dawn,” he says smoothly. The taller of the two women raises her eyebrow; she turns her gaze to Q’ira. 

“So, Lady Tamsin,” he says, turning his on gaze to the woman. “What is your story?”

She moves her eyes from where she has been examining Q’ira. “I represent a group—a Foundation, if you will—that is trying to solve the labor problems on that fragrant world whose people that you express such admiration for. Specifically, we’re looking for labor that won’t necessarily try to flee our world. We’re willing to pay top credit to solve this problem.”

He narrows his eyes slightly at her. “Since when has Draq’ Bel Iblis condoned any type of servitude on his world? He has always been very pointed on that matter. Not to mention being the true power in that system.”

Tamsin shares a look with Ina, her pilot. “He’s no longer in charge. He retired. I represent a group of investors who are looking to change even further, by circumventing his chosen successor.” She gives him a look of promise. “My direct supervisor, who is leading this charge, is also looking to expand her pleasure empire. So any of your units who couldn’t work, but might have other skills could be used, even those who might serve the servers, could be of use.”

He nods after a moment. “You present a promising offer, depending on the amount of your money, Lady Tamsin. I’m sure that your investors include a certain engineering company? One that has far-reaching influence.”

She nods. “Yes. CEC, does have wide-ranging interests.”

An idea comes into his head. “Would that include the world of the Togruta? Shili?”

Again the two young women look at one another. “Yes, Excellency,” Tamsin replies. 

“I might have need of other services—something specialized—could be a contractor, rather than a slave—excuse me, a servant,” he says smoothly, the last at Zara’s look. She seems more shocked at the request, rather than the slip. He ignores her expression. “Specialized hunt training.”

Nola Tamsin smiles. “I have a partner, one of our liaisons, who could find anything you need.”

Jadhic allows a satisfied smile across his face. “Excellent. I’ll message you with the details.” He brings his hands together, manages to keep from rubbing them together in glee. “This has been a very lucrative morning.”

Nola glances at Ina. “We do have something we’d like to offer as a gift, excellency. A show of good faith. We also heard your expression of a morning taste for Corellians.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What can you offer?”

“A male Corellian. He’ll be docile by the time he arrives, especially if it’s made clear his survival depends on it. He is very interested in his own pleasure, as well. We need him out of the way.”

He remains silent for a moment, then speaks. “That sounds intriguing. I think that I might be interested in the challenge.” He smirks. “I could always use a gardener, here at the Residence.”

Nola looks at Ina; they share a smirk. “Both of us can attest to the fact that he has all of his tools, that they work, and he’s very skilled in the use of them.”

An officer walks in. Jadhic turns his gaze on her. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she says, “there’s a disturbance in the processing facility. The Zygerrian supervisor wishes your approval for terminal processing, as required by Imperial regulation.”

Jadhic sighs. “Very well.” He turns and lifts each of the three women’s hands to his lips, in turn. “Ladies. We’ll be in touch. Please enjoy our world.” As he turns towards the bedroom, he notices that Tamsin and Q’ira seem to be gazing at each other, an expression of appraisal and approval on both of their faces. Ina seems to be caught in the act of rolling her eyes.

As he exits the room, freshly cleaned and in his uniform, he idly wonders how Jirden had gotten past them, out of the refresher. The hint of a green fog falls from his vision.

* * *

Maris feels the impact of fuzzy skin under her right fist, a flash before her left foot follows up with a kick to the groin of another guard who was attempting to grab the stump of her left forearm. She uses the remnant of her left arm to seize the impertinent guard and bring his head to her chest. Her right braces just above his long, upright ear on the left side of his head; she can feel his face moving against her chest. 

For another second at least, before the combination of the leverage of her injured arm and the force of her uninjured causes his head to snap downward and to the right. The head remains at that angle when she drops his body, joining the other guard on the floor with a mis-angled neck. The third, remaining guard, circles her warily, his eyes on the two corpses—corpses that his actions had brought to their current state. 

She had barely stepped off of the transport when he had taken one look at her injured arm, at its stump, and had immediately barked. “Euthanize her. She’s no good to us without a limb.” His eyes had looked up and down her body. “I don’t even think she’s fit for a pleasuring role.”

Maris smiles at him, her eyes locking on his panicked ones frantically looking for escape as she moved towards him, her feet positioned as that of a dancer moving across the floor. Maris hears several more footsteps, just inside her senses. She reaches out with the Force and snaps the neck of the last one moving in, so that no one would know how he died, at least until later. 

The other three manage to tackle her; she rolls out from under them, sweeping two of them from their feet. The third she manages to punch several times in the side; she can feel the ribs give with each impact after the second one in the precise place that the first one had. As did, the third, fourth, and fifth. 

She’s going for the sixth, when her left forearm is twisted by the other two and pulled back. She screams as the two of them punch her stump repeatedly with the hands not engaged in twisting. Even though the wound had healed months ago, the pain lances up her arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Zygerrians who’d brought her from Coruscant watching the fight with amusement. She did glimpse credits changing hands. 

Maris is still able to tear part of an ear off with her teeth before the four Zygerrians manage to twist her around, shoving her to her knees. The one whose ear she’d bitten off, grabs her hair and yanks her head back, baring her throat, along with the help of the one with the now-broken ribs. 

The leader of the three dead guards draws a long, single-edged knife from his belt. She feels the steel against her skin. She prepares to open herself fully to the Force, allowing the red of her anger to close in on her vision. 

“Stop,” says a loud voice. She looks up and sees five Imperial stormtroopers and an older officer. 

The Zygerrian overseer turns back to her. “This is a local matter. It’s a euthanization, rather than a terminal processing. Sorry you were bothered.”

He doesn’t say anything further, as a blaster bolt slices his head in two. 

The other four immediately drop her arms and move away. It doesn’t do them any good, as the troopers open fire. 

“Discipline must be maintained,” the uniformed Imperial says quietly. He looks at her with shrewd gray eyes. A smile quirks his lips. “I think that you’ve proven yourself to have some definite skills, my dear. How would you like to work for me?” The smile turns deadly. “I have someone that I might need you to keep an eye on. A business partner that I’m not exactly trusting, these days.”

Maris manages to rise, shaking off the four bodies. She works to bring her breathing under control. She is only able to nod briefly as the red in her vision recedes. 

Most of it. She opens her mind as she feels the taste of ashes in her dry mouth. Just a small taste. The usual harbinger of the dark side of her mystical partner.


	15. Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families can be found in the strangest of places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art of Dani by @rebekahs-art

The new heart-bond looks down at her loves. Both lie peacefully, asleep after the exertions of most of the night. She reaches down with both hands and runs the index finger of each over their lips. Both stir, but don’t wake, burrowing in closer to each other. Kanyly makes a tiny sound of contentment as her fingers twine in Boman’s chest hair. 

Alyysina Faygan’ii na Torstan’ii sighs gently as she turns and lifts the light wrap over her shoulders, leaving it open as it was designed. She pads quietly from the room. As she quietly opens the door, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror of the dresser. She pauses before she exits, placing her right hand on her hip. Her wide-set amber eyes stare back at her. Her lips, slightly swollen from the earlier activity, quirk in a tiny smile. She runs her hands through the messy blue-with-brown-highlights-waves. She shakes her head and looks back at her heart bonds, both secure in nearly fifty years of bonding, even before she came along. She’d felt like she’d been welcomed as a part of that—a new part—by everyone in the family, from their three daughters, to the large and growing group of grandchildren.

She could lose it all, because of a choice that she had made. The right choice, but one with a price.

She sighs and moves from the room, her bare feet sure as she makes her way to the newly designed lab—a lab and study that had been a bonding gift from Kanyly’s and Boman’s children. Even Danalaan, their youngest daughter, with her footloose and wayward travel through the stars, had contributed towards the redesign. Sina grins. No one had asked any questions as to how ill-gotten the funds might have been, between her and her two ‘business partners’, the Corellian Rik Duel and the Rodian Chihdo. 

She takes a moment, placing her forehead against the wood of the door before entering. She sighs again—something she’d been doing a lot of, lately, when she thought others weren’t looking. Sina manages to keep from sobbing at the memory of the soft and worried looks that both Boman and Kanyly had given her. They’d refrained from asking, giving her time and space to engage them. 

“I can’t,” she whispers to herself. “They’ve got their own problems.”

She enters the study, then walks over to the desk, drawing the chair out and sitting. She looks at the aurabesh letters on both screens. Two communications, ready to be sent, only awaiting her signature. One, a resignation, from something that she’d only been involved in for the last decade, but had given her as much fulfillment as her calling as a body-healer and surgeon. 

The other, a letter requesting a leave of absence from that first calling, from the privileges at the various hospitals. 

All because of an example. An example of two women, standing against a wall, facing certain death, so that others wouldn’t. One, a younger woman—so young, barely out of her teens, but one of the most powerful women Sina had ever met. Not just because of those arcane and now proscribed powers that they didn’t speak of, but because of her sense of justice. One very similar to the older woman clinging to her hand, Sina’s beloved cousin, as the blasters were aimed at their chests. She thinks of her own moment of cheating death, when an Imperial tank commander had nearly shot her while she protected a young boy that the tank had struck. 

An example of fighting, ready to risk it all for what was right. Until those moments, when her world was threatened, that example had always been abstract for her. She’d found it in herself to stand up to the Imperial, even though terror had wrapped itself around her heart and mind—the two primary parts of the Zeltron soul. Her body, the third part—the part that supports the others in the upside down triangle, had managed to keep her standing there. 

She sees her message light blinking, with a particular pattern. In spite of her thoughts, a warm smile moves over her lips. She hits the ‘dial’ button on the message. 

That same cousin, Daaineran Faygan smiles from the two-dee. Her eyes play over Sina’s exposed body, her purple eyes twinkling. Sina grins and returns the look at Dani’s similar dress, one that rests off of her shoulders, just like Sina’s. _Just because the body is the bottom part of the triangle_ , she thinks, _doesn’t mean it isn’t a big part._

**Dani’s call**

“Hey, Doof,” Dani says. “I see I’m still having to hold up the honor of the Faygan women, when it comes to certain parts.” Her eyes focus on Sina’s chest. “One of these days, you’ll hit puberty.”

“About the same time that you’ll hit your growth spurt, Snorf,” Sina snarks back. “Still, your lack of height does have an advantage. You’re just the right size to rest a drink on your head.”

_Yep, the attention to the body’s a huge part. Particularly in our humor._

Dani’s eyes grow serious as she studies Sina’s face. Sina looks down.

“It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?” Dani asks. 

Sina takes a deep breath before answering. She shakes her head. “I know you didn’t call to hear my troubles. I’ll figure something out. Even if it means leaving the Land for awhile.” Her face crumples; she’s able to recover. “Right as we’re establishing our bond,” she whispers. 

Dani’s face is tender as she allows Sina to gather herself. “I was just calling to see if you could help me contact Dek Antilles. I know you’ve worked together in the past on some papers. We need his expertise.”

Sina looks at her for a moment. 

“I could contact him through his partner, but we have to be very careful, with certain parties snooping around,” Dani finishes.

Sina nods. “Yeah. I was just in communication with him. He has a problem that he is trying to solve, tissue damage from some sort of strange energy, with longterm side effects. He thinks— and I agree—that there is a substance out there that could help. I’ve been running some sims for him.”

Dani’s eyebrow raises. “I think that’s why Heg wants to consult.”

Sina smiles at the mention of the Drall scientist and medico. “Yeah. We’ve worked together as well. The three of us complement each other. Especially if you mix the genetic healing, the medicinal, and the surgery.” She nods. “I think that I can help. I’ll let you know, love.” She closes her eyes. “Like I said, I may have to leave the Land for awhile. Maybe this can blow over, if I quietly resign and leave. I’m just worried I may lose them.”

She opens her eyes and notices that Dani’s gaze is centered behind her, with a warm smile on her face.

“You’ll never lose us, my love,” comes a warm voice. “The bond is for life. No matter where you are.”

She turns in her chair. Kanyly and Boman stand there, hand-in-hand. “You don’t have to give up anything you love, Sina,” Boman says. “I’d resign myself, if it meant that. Family is everything.” Both of them move over to her and take her in their arms. She is aware of their joint resonances melding with hers—with nothing but love and comfort.

She shakes her head. “It’s bigger than us. The Land needs you both as leaders. To keep us safe from the darkness. My job as a local Councilor isn’t that important.”

Kanyly reaches down and kisses her, their lips melding. Boman follows suit. “We’ll see what we can do. You did the right thing; you shouldn’t be punished for it. In the meantime, you work with Dani. Know that our love will follow you anywhere in the stars,” Kanyly says.

As they both fold her into a deeper embrace; their bodies react to their hearts, Boman whispers to her. “A lot of things can be fixed when you’re lying entwined with your heart-bonds.”

Sina feels their skin moves against hers. As she kisses them, she sees Dani’s face still on the screen. Her eyes are tender, as they shift to the black. The indicator in a Zeltron of strong emotions. 

Emotions of the heart, the mind, and the body. 

Mostly the heart.

* * *

Dala moves quietly through the early morning. She’d managed to avoid any of the Zygerrian patrols; the Imperial versions had left her alone. She slides up the walls of the alley, as the sun rises some more. She’d managed to catch a glimpse of the young woman being carried into the Imperial residence early yesterday, her emerald-colored face calm, but definitely unconscious. There’d been no chains on her, but Dala had seen the device around her neck. One that was unobtrusive, except to a trained eye.

A part of her wonders what it says about her that she knows so much about the myriad of slave control devices used in the galaxy as a whole. At least one or two of them, from personal experience. Thankfully she hadn’t ever experienced the Tatooine special of the explosive capsule in the neck. She hoped that she nor any of her loved ones ever would. 

Dala starts at the clanking noise from the street behind her. She pulls deeper into the shadows as she analyzes the sound. Metal, rather than plastoid. Her suspicions are confirmed as two Zygerrians in their metal and leather armor pass by. She manages to slow her already rapid heartbeat. _You might experience something just as nasty as having your head blown off by an explosive charge, if you don’t get your montrals out of your ass, girl_ , she thinks. Her mind flashes back to witnessing the execution of one of her fellow slaves on Kadavo, with the use of the electrowhip. She tries to push the young man’s face from her mind—one of the reasons that she does what she does.

Her heart drops as a large hand lands on her shoulders, accompanied by another one over her mouth. She tries to strike out as certain people had taught her, including a Mandalorian beskar-smith and a clonetrooper with a distant, but usually content look in his eyes, but two other plate-sized hands seize her arms, pinioning them against her body. Dala does manages to get one hand out to try a J’ohlana Wren special, a seizure of the attacker’s genital area, he—she just manages to catch confirmation of that, before he evades the grasp. She settles for a Gregor special of an elbow to the jaw as it slips upwards.

The jaw is like iron. She nurses her slight hurt as she is bundled up and taken down the alley. She realizes that aside from grabbing her, the two have been remarkably gentle. Not at all what she’d expect from an Imperial or Zygerrian pair. The trip is a short one as they enter a small room. Without a word, they drop her feet on the floor lightly, stepping back. 

A young Lethan Twi’lek woman gazes at her. A smirk—heartaching in its similarity to another—flows over her features. “A bit skinny for my taste.”

Dala can almost feel the eyeroll from another, behind her. As always, she wishes that she’d been able to develop those senses that she possesses—the evolutionary traits of the Hunt, to identify the heartbeat and paint a picture with echolocation. 

The familiar voice—the model for that expression on the Twi’lek’s face—speaks. “Face, you’re worse than another I know. Always thinking with your nethers.”

Dala turns and immediately grabs Ahsoka in a hug. The hug is reciprocated, warmly, but when she pushes her away, holding her at arm’s length, Ahsoka’s eyes are hard. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks. 

“My job. One I’ve been doing in one form or another since you rescued me on Kadavo.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “No. Your job is to find them. Somebody else, like me or this idiot here will do the heavy lifting.” She looks down. “It’s what I’ve been trained to do nearly since birth.”

Dala looks at the idiot in question, then another, accompanied by a slightly younger idiot. “And what’s their excuses?” she asks, pointing at Nola and Meglann.

Ahsoka looks at them sourly. Especially Meglann, who sticks her tongue out at her. “I have no idea,” Ahsoka replies.

Nola doesn’t rise to the look, neither does Meglann. “As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted by these two assholes, our buddy Jadhic has asked if I have any juice on Shili, for some specialized help.” She reaches over and shoves Ahsoka lightly. “Do I, Fulcrum?”

Dala is struck by the easy warmth between them. She glances at the two behemoths who’d brought her here, now unmasked. Both of them, an older Pantoran and a larger Iridonian Zabrak, have the good sense to look at her apologetically. She tunes back in. 

“I think this might be a job for Jana Roshti, layabout mercenary and senatorial playtoy,” Ahsoka says. 

Dala shoves her way into the conversation. “And her trusty Togruta servant.”

She smiles in triumph at Meglann’s, Face’s, and Nola’s agreement, and Fulcrum’s fiery expression.

**The Past  
Nar Shaddaa**

Dala Ti walks into the small docking bay on the lower level of the Smuggler’s Moon. She hears laughter and no small bit of snark from two MandoSouth accents and a Corellian drawl coming from the old Republic shuttle. She basks in the laughter and joy, before entering into the bay. 

She looks behind her to make sure that she wasn’t followed—something she’d never learned in architecture school. As she does, she hears footsteps behind her and the male version of the Mando accent. She takes a deep breath, then turns. She feels a broad smile break over her face as her eyes fall on Gregor. Her heart twists as she sees the joy and warmth—the laughter in his eyes, as well as on his features. She walks up to him and waits, her arms slightly open. His smile broadens even more, as he moves into her arms. 

Dala pulls him tighter as he matches her embrace. A familiarity born of the rescue on another slaver’s world—a rescue of both her people and his. She rests her forehead against his, staring into his eyes, gold into dark amber.

“A good day today,” says a woman’s warm voice, with a similar, but slightly different accent. She smiles as she looks over Gregor’s muscular shoulder. A young woman clad in a tank top and cargo trousers, rather than her familiar armor, walks towards them. When she reaches them, she lifts her face to Dala’s giving her a brief kiss on the cheek.

J’ohlana Wren turns back to the shuttle as another figure descends the ramp. The man known to most as the Storm King, to hide his now-forbidden life. His own warm, crooked grin of welcome is sincere, but he turns to his wife, giving her a hooded look. 

Dala matches Gregor’s eyeroll. “I have another job for you if you’re interested,” she says. 

King looks at her, allowing his grin to grow more devilish—much like J’ohlana’s is all of the time. “Any troopers?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “It’s not info from Fulcrum’s network, but we could vet the info through them.”

He grins, then looks at J’oh. “Remember what we talked about, J’oh,” he says, a hint of caution. He reaches over and squeeze Dala’s arm. “Good to see you. Gotta run. Got an important meeting.” He somehow manages not to actually run. 

Dala looks at J’oh. The young woman’s bronze skin is flushed, her dark eyes seem to be focused somewhere around King’s ass. Dala notices that her respirations are somewhat quicker than what she remembers for a human. She moves her eyes down to J’oh’s breasts, with their indicators that she might be joining that meeting.

J’oh smirks at Dala, who returns the look. “We’ll be backing off the missions a bit in little while, dear. About six months time.” As she moves away, she places her hand on her abdomen. Dala breathes out, her eyes troubled. 

Gregor touches her cheek. “Yeah. A biter. That’s what happens with all of those ‘important meetings’.”

Dala feels her heart sink. Gregor’s eyes soften. “I know. I think she should quit now. So does King. But she’s driven. Driven to make up for her past—a past that only she faults herself for.”

She rests on his shoulder. She knows that he can feel her lekku twitching slightly against his cheek. 

Finally, he breaks away. Her eyes widen at his own version of that devilish look. “How do you feel about an important meeting?” She laughs. 

Dala looks up from her reverie. Ahsoka looks at her, her own eyes tearing. She stands in the common room of that same ship, clad in a version of Togruta hunt finery. A hooded mask that covers all but her blue eyes is in place, with a facsimile of facial markings on there—not her own. Their hands had been clasped, throughout Dala’s story. 

“I guess that we were all closer than we thought back then,” Fulcrum says quietly. She falls into her own thoughts, about the young Corellian she’d known in a different life and with a different name. His wife, who she’d apparently inspired to change her future from that past, and his unborn child.

Dala holds her, leaving her to her own thoughts. Dala remembers something from that day that she hadn’t shared with Fulcrum, about later in the same hour. Her mind goes to the feel of Gregor’s skin on hers, as he lies on top of her, slowly thrusting inside of her. 

She remembers how gentle his touch had been. A gentleness that she’d seen in his eyes, along with the distance caused by his head injury, even when fighting fiercely for his brothers’ freedom.


	16. Rogue Slave Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeling and Dealing

Shyla Merricope eyes the room from the entrance. Various hangars-on and other wastrels await the Moff’s pleasure. In the few years of the Empire, and what contact she’d had, she’d never known an Imperial moff to have an afternoon levee’ where his subjects could all gather and tell him how great he was, as well as try to sell him on whatever scheme could line their pockets. Most of this sort were known for not calling attention to themselves, manipulating behind the scenes, letting others do their dirty work for them. Much as they did for their Emperor. 

At least until a timely orbital bombardment was needed from their sector fleet, or, alternatively, a visit from their sector’s ground forces. Forces that were not above using proscribed horrible weapons on the population of any world that needed ‘Imperialization’. 

She takes a deep breath and glances in the nearest mirror. Her disguise is in place, this time with a red wig and pale blue eyes. A flowing blue gown, with the appropriate parts on display makes up the rest of the disguise. A small blaster, almost an adornment on the golden belt rests within easy reach of her right hand. Two guards at the other side of the door see the weapon and start towards her. She reaches down between her breasts, bringing out a small golden circle on a chain. 

The guards stop as they see the Imperial cog in black on the circle. She looks at the taller figure next to her. The sharp blue eyes meet hers over the colorful hood with the faux facial markings. She can just see the remnants of an eyeroll at the pomposity of the gathering. Fulcrum’s eyes turn back to the figure seated on the raised dais, as if on a throne. Shyla’s eyes follow hers. 

Jadhic Sander-Calanthe, by most standards of male beauty in the galaxy, would’ve been judged a handsome, dignified human of upper middle age with his even gray eyes, his strong aquiline features and his thick head of gray hair, immaculately coifed. 

It’s only when you look deeper into those eyes that you realize that there is an ugliness there. Eyes that seem to either be shifting around, eying each person in the room, trying to determine their worth to him. 

As if everyone and every thing had a small label in his mind with numbers and an Imperial credit symbol above them. She starts as a memory stirs from her own past as the executive of a world and a system. _Something_ …

She shakes the thought away, as the interim Moff’s eyes fall on her. Idly, she wonders what her price might be, floating above her head. _It must not be a lot_ , she thinks as his eyes track to the woman with the high crowned hood and concealed lekku beside her. He beckons them towards the dais. Shyla places her hand on the cooler skin of Fulcrum’s arm, drawing her behind her. To an onlooker, it would look as if Shyla had the power in the relationship—an appearance that would be important to this crowd. She senses the other Togruta woman following, two steps behind and to the left. 

“You’ve brought me something?” Jadhic asks. His eyes move over Fulcrum’s body, or what is on display in the hunt-clothing that she wears, brief clothing that is almost wild in its finery and the amount of orange skin on display. She notices out of the corner of her eye that Fulcrum’s eyes remain on the floor, something she’d never seen the young woman do before. 

_We all play our roles_ , Shyla thinks. She feels absolutely no tension in the cool skin under her hand. 

“Yes, your Excellency,” Shyla replies easily. “A mutual acquaintance, from a world whose people you have a certain affinity for, asked me to find a specific item for you.”

Sander-Calanthe’s eyebrow raises. He nods after a moment. “Ahh, Ms. Tamsin. I see. Lovely and resourceful. Is this the item? Is she skilled?”

Shyla waits a beat or two before replying. “She is. You did say that she could be a contractor. She isn’t a slave, but she is legally bound by contract to me. I act as her agent.”

Sander-Calanthe rises and walks over. He circles Fulcrum, then reaches out and touches her arm. Shyla feels her tense. 

Apparently, so does the Moff. He stares at her. Shyla interposes herself between them. “As I said, she’s not a slave.”

“Yes, but she’s an Imperial subject. I’ll touch her if I want to. Take off her hood.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Moff. She is a warranted teacher of the Hunt, with special skills in dealing with the Warden. I don’t pretend to understand the poodoo myself, but apparently once she becomes that mentor, she cannot show her face to any but the Warden. It might negate the teachings.” She smiles. “You surely understand.”

Sander-Calanthe’s eyes flash. “I’m an Imperial moff. I’ll be the judge of whether she keeps her face concealed from me.”

Shyla again feels a slight tensing from her ‘contractor.’ She shrugs her shoulders. “Suit yourself. You asked for a specific type of teacher. I provided it. As long as I get my money, it doesn’t matter to me if she’s actually able to work or not.”

Again, she sees in her mind, now that she’d thought of it, the number and the credit symbol over Fulcrum’s montrals. She sees it decrease. 

Finally, the calculations stop. “Very well. For now.” He lifts his hand to Fulcrum’s cheek. She doesn’t flinch, but lifts her eyes. Shyla swears she sees a tiny hint of something like promise in the blue orbs. 

Promise of pleasure, or promise of a slow dismemberment, she’s not sure. 

The Moff’s eyes fall on Dala. They narrow, as if searching his memory. 

Much like Shyla is with their host. 

“Thank you, Madam,” he says. “See my admin droid for payment details. I’ll take our Lady Teacher and her servant to her new charge.”

Shyla hopes that she doesn’t visibly exhale as they exit. _Didn’t even have to threaten him with my so-called Hutt connections. I guess ol’ Sander found that the risk outweighed the reward._

Her mind starts as the connections are made, when she shortens his name in her mind. A memory of a visit from a delegation, from another so-called neutral world. 

Those same gray, calculating eyes looking out at her, from the midst of the Mandalorian delegation. The one unarmored and unarmed being.

She tries not to make too obvious a beeline to her ship. For a call with a Dragon. Or at least a Dragon’s daughter.

* * *

Two days after meeting an Imperial moff in a half-opened bathrobe, Meglann finds herself sitting in a certain winebar, waiting on someone to finish their secret evil plans. She looks at the still-full glass of wine, shaking her head. She lifts another glass and takes a sip of water, instead. 

“I’m really tired of sitting in this high-falutin’ meat market for scumbags, killing my liver with this swill,” she whispers to the air.

“Quit yer bitchin’,” comes an acerbic voice with a Mid Rim accent. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Yeah,” she replies, “get the bacta tank ready for whatever I might contract from whoever the all-star might be.”

“Well,” Nola replies. “You might not attract any attention if your shirt wasn’t unbuttoned down to the honeypot.”

Meglann looks down at the dress shirt, grinning slightly. “Maybe. But I find that taking dating tips from a woman who takes fashion advice from someone who’d be just as comfortable never wearing clothes at all is something that’s _really_ helpful.”

“There is that, but I think you might have that same influence, though in pilot’s clothing. Anything?”

“No. Zara’s been alone for a bit. Maybe she’s just enjoying a drink.”

Meglann can almost hear the servos turning. “No. Just a few minutes of exposure to her gives me an idea that she never does anything without a calculated reason.”

“Point taken. You owe me, though. Some of that private stash of whisky.”

“How about a night with me, obeying your every command?”

“I can get that anytime.”

They both fall into a companionable silence, albeit one of several kilometers’ separation.

Meglann feels herself coming more alert as a woman walks in, her gaze locked on Zara’s table. Meglann studies her datapad, keeping one eye on the table. The woman, a human in her thirties sits across from Zara and engages in a quiet conversation. Meglann can’t pick out anything that is said, but she focuses on the woman, surreptitiously taking a holo with her wrist comm. The woman has short, red hair and is dressed in clothing that stresses function over form, although Meglann can appreciate how the clothing clings in all of the right places. She looks down as the woman’s pale blue eyes move in her direction. 

The woman stands up and nods at Zara, making her way to the exit. Meglann notices that she pockets something—something that she hadn’t seen change hands. 

Her comm vibrates. _Follow her. Not too closely. Be careful._

She waits several moments. As she does, Zara gets up and walks toward her. She sits down. “Getting everything you need, dear?” she asks. 

Meglann doesn’t even attempt to disseminate. “Mostly. Just checking out what a ‘business partner’ is up to. Would you expect any less, _darling?”_

Zara reaches over and picks up her wineglass, draining it. She rises and smiles. “Important safety tip, dear, for snooping. If you’re in a winebar, drink wine.”

Meglann doesn’t miss a beat, she rises. “I’ll keep that in mind. If I ever give a shit about someone seeing me. Especially since they’ve already met me.” She moves out from her table, allowing her shoulder to connect with Zara’s. The woman says nothing, but Meglann can feel her ire rise, as Zara stumbles a bit. 

As she exits into the sunlight, she walks into an alley and slumps briefly against the wall. She manages to take several breaths, helping to slow her racing heartbeat. Before she can turn and exit, she hears running footsteps behind her, an instant before she is slammed face first into the wall. She strikes out, lifting her foot and slamming it down on the attacker’s foot, before lifting it again and striking the instep. She hears a curse, in what sounds like a female voice; a pair of full breasts against her back as the attacker seizes her body at least somewhat confirms this. Her mind flies back to her perusal of the woman who’d sat at Zara’s table; she’d noted the woman’s shape—while checking for weapons, of course. 

She cries out as her face is slammed into the wall again. She feels herself sagging in the woman’s arms. She draws on all of her remaining strength, lifting both feet and shoving off, before dropping her right foot behind the woman’s. 

Thankfully, her fall on top of the woman, as she continues to hold Meglann in a tight hug, is well padded, as she lands on the woman’s chest. Meglann wastes no time in elbowing the woman in ribs, before managing to jump to her feet. 

She doesn’t get far. 

The woman yanks on her ponytail, then slams her into the ground on her left shoulder. Meglann shakes her head, but manages to move to her right hand and knees, nursing her screaming shoulder. She gets her first, close look at the woman. They are both about the same height, but Meglann is not as solid as her attacker. She doesn’t get a chance to look any closer when the woman punches her, snapping her head back from the connection with her cheek. 

Meglann’s pride is bruised as she collapses straight on her ass, her legs folding slightly outward. She shakes her head yet again, attempting to get up, but she can’t seem to make any part of her body work. Her vision starts to fade as she slumps on the ground. The redhaired woman gives her an apologetic look before drawing her foot back. 

Her head clears; Meglann is unable to tell how long she was out. As she attempts to move her head from the ground, she feels a hand on her chest. Her eyes are able to focus from the million and one hurts in her body—especially her left cheekbone and shoulder. She stares into a pair of large blue eyes, under a shock of purple hair. Her eyes track down, just under the woman’s left eye to what looks like two teardrops tattooed under that eye. She is about to speak when a large dark-skinned human male moves into her vision. He crouches down next to the woman, his right hand going into her left. 

The only impression that Meglann gets aside from the yellow tattoo across the bridge of his prominent nose, extending out over his cheekbones as well, is a kind sadness in his eyes. 

He lifts his left hand and touches her injured cheekbone. Strangely, the pain subsides slightly and she is warmed.

The two fingers lift and move over her eyes. Her vision fades from the center.


	17. Teaching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and learning.

Ahsoka follows the Imperial up the stairs. She sends out the echolocation signal, mixing it with her powerful hearing. She glances back at Dala; her face remains calm—only a tiny bit of apprehension can be seen in her golden eyes. The Imperial stops at an ornate wooden door as they come to the top of the stairs. A fleet trooper nods after bracing at attention, then turns, pulling off his left glove. He touches the doorknob, there is a soft click just as he turns it. As it opens, she looks around, her eyes taking in various points of interest to anyone who would need to get out of this place in a hurry, and without notice. 

She and Dala follow Sander-Calanthe into the bright garden, both making the same quick look for anything that might impede the escape. They turn a corner of low hedges and come to a couple of benches, set in the middle of the garden. Ahsoka notes the doors on the other side, doors to rooms that take up the rest of the roof. She has seen setups like this; she’d once hung in a cage over the city from the parapet of a similar setup, albeit much higher than the five or so stories of this one. 

Her eyes fall on the figure on one of the benches. The young woman rises as she sees the three of them. 

“Hello, my dear. I’m glad to see that you seem to show respect to elders of your own kind, if not to Imperial authority.”

Ahsoka manages not to roll her eyes at that, having only recently passed the birthday that would make her all of nine years older than the Warden. She isn’t able to reach out and kick Dala, whose smirk would be visible from light-years away. 

“Who is this?” the young woman asks. To her credit, her silver eyes are suspicious as they examine Ahsoka’s figure, in the hunt clothing and the hood. 

“This is the woman who is going to make you worth much more than the trouble I’ve taken to bring you here. She’s going to help you fulfill your so-called destiny, girl. So that I can get paid for your services.”

Ahsoka manages to keep herself calm at the Imp’s words. She can see that Dala is struggling even more. She turns to the Moff and says in a low voice, “Leave us. If you want results, you won’t interfere with my training.”

She can see the indignant _you-can’t-talk-to-me-like-that_ response welling up on the Imperial’s handsome face—the default response to any challenge from the few Imperial bureaucrats she’d encountered. 

Most of them, it hadn’t gone well for them in her presence, although some of them hadn’t even known it hadn’t. 

Still, he has to get the final word. “See that you get results. Or I’ll have you thrown off of this roof.”

He turns and is gone. 

She and Jillan stare at one another. “What makes you think that I can be trained?” Jillan asks, her voice with an edge to it. 

Without a word, Ahsoka takes the girl’s arm gently and starts to pull her towards one of the doors. Jillan tries to break away, but gives up at the look into Ahsoka’s eyes. 

In less than a minute, they’re in a small comfortable sitting room. Ahsoka gives a quick glance around the room. She releases Jillan’s arm; she’d made sure that she wasn’t holding it too tightly. She nods at the memory of the growing strength she’d felt in the arm. She pulls something from her belt and glances; she’s not sure what it is as she reaches out to the Force. When she is through, there are less electronic hums in her other preternatural senses. 

She replaces the device and looks at Jillan more closely. Without a word, now that the monitoring devices have all suddenly simultaneously malfunctioned, she reaches up and pulls the hood off, allowing Jillan to see her face. 

“You and Dala are the only ones that will see my face, Jillan,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “I’m your hunt-teacher. You can call me Teacher when there’s anybody within earshot. If it’s just us three, you can call me Tano. That is my real kin-name. Someday you might earn my given name, but not here.”

She can sense Dala’s amazement. 

Jillan looks away. “You may be wasting your time, Teach,” she says, that same acerbic edge to her voice. “I’ve never hunted. I’m from the city. Only my mother is from the bush. I have no clue why I was chosen. And don’t fucking say that ‘the Pantheon works in mysterious ways’.”

Ahsoka grins. “Okay. Now that we’ve established that I can cut the all-knowing teacher act, we can get down to business. You were chosen. I’m here. Let’s cut the bullshit and get down to business.” A part of her is gratified at the widened eyes at her words. Both from Jillan and Dala. She doesn’t know if she should actually send a prayer of thanks to Anakin, or to Covenant for her enhanced vocabulary.

Or both. 

Jillan’s eyes tear. “I don’t won’t to be responsible for you being executed,” she whispers. 

Ahsoka softens at the plaintive tone. She reaches out and touches Jillan’s cheek and left lek, bring her her eyes to meet hers. For the first time, she looks closely at her charge. She touches the white markings on her cheeks, very similar to the zig-zag-and-dot combinations on her forehead, though with an extra marking, flipped and below the dots in each chevron on her cheeks. Her red lekku stripes are just beginning to separate from the uniform markings of her younger years, making a nice contrast to the gray of the lekku. She’d not met many uplands Togruta, with the darker green coloring that was very common on those clan-lands, with more greens in the colors of the vegetation. 

She shakes her head. As she does, she sends out an echolocation signal. She smiles at what she receives back. “You won’t, sweetie. You might find I’m harder to kill.”

“Why can’t I refuse? Makyo said that two had refused in the past. One less than a decade ago.”

Ahsoka drops her hands and walks over to the window that looks out over the city. “You can’t, right now. I’m going to have to maintain this look of teaching you, until I can figure out a way to get you out of here.” She closes her eyes. “Plus, the last one that refused, didn’t actually refuse—she didn’t even know it had been offered. Someone else refused on her behalf. Because she had an even bigger responsibility than just to her world.” She manages to keep her voice even. “She was also in the middle of a shooting war.”

She hears Dala’s intake of breath at those words. 

“I can’t,” she hears again. “I don’t have what it takes.”

Without another thought, Ahsoka whirls, drawing and hurling the knife on her leg at the young woman. Dala gives a quick scream, a scream that dies almost as quickly. 

Jillan’s eyes are wide as the knifepoint quivers about a centimeter from her face. 

Trapped flat between the palms of her hands. 

Ahsoka looks at her mildly. “You were saying?”

Everyone in the room breathes somewhat normally again, other than Ahsoka, whose respirations remain steady. She keeps her face calm as well, despite the roiling emotions in her mind and heart. 

Emotions brought on by the tiny hint of something else she’d detected in the girl. Very tiny, but present nonetheless. 

Something that could complicate everything.

* * *

Bryne looks out over the tranquil lake, a place of many times of peace and quiet for him, though the last six years or so of his life. For the last two, with a companion to share the peace and warmth with him. He pushes thoughts of Ahsoka away; he could sense some of her thoughts this morning. She is troubled about something, seems to be intentionally shielding him. A part of him wonders if it’s because of the fact that Soma Jess might be in their heads now. 

He hopes that’s the reason. 

He shakes his head of those thoughts as he hears footsteps behind him. He turns and gives at least a brief smile to the person standing behind him. 

Dav Kolan smirks, then walks closer. He nods. “King,” he says. 

“Dav. So what brings you here to Takodana?”

“I’m just the muscle. The brains of the operation has a meeting. With another of your band of reprobates, as well as another doctor and nerd-type.”

Bryne raises an eyebrow. 

Dav grins. “His meeting is with a couple of people who can automatically make anyone in a room hornier than a three-balled lothcat, just by walking in.”

Bryne grins. “Dani. Plus her cousin Sina?” His grin fades. “Why is Sina meeting them?”

“Dek and a Drall scientist and doctor have collaborated with her on some stuff. She was a last minute addition,” Dav replies. 

Bryne nods. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he sees Dav looking at him with concern. Or, at least passes for concern on Dav Kolan’s face. An ex-ISB officer might have lost any repertoire of concerned looks that he might have once had. 

“You okay, Bryne?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Just dealing with some stuff. Some mistakes that I’ve made.”

Dav nods after a moment. “It ain’t easy being you, is it?”

Bryne raises the middle finger of his left hand. “Thanks for the warm, fuzzy, reinforcing thoughts.”

“It’s what I live for, King. So what did you want from me?”

“You once told me of one of your first ISB capers. Dealing with the possible sale of ex-clonetroopers as slaves.”

Dav smiles tightly, then looks out over the water as two sailing birds move low over the surface. “Yeah. Took an interest in it. May have been my first mistake, letting my superiors and a former superior know where my shak was tied up.”

“Clonetroopers,” Bryne says. “Mine, too.” A smile grows over his face. “It’s why I was on the other side of putting MaDall out of business on Zygerria.”

Dav gazes at him, his black eyes unreadable. After a moment, he gives a quick nod. “Sounded like your brand of chaos, now that I know you and think about it a bit. I’m surprised your girlfriend wasn’t involved.”

Bryne is silent. “She wasn’t in the picture, yet. At least not overtly.” He looks away. “I was married then, or just about to be,” he adds quietly. 

Dav reaches out and touches his cheek. Bryne closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“That’s what you were grieving when you and I met here,” Dav says quietly. “When we first made love.”

Bryne nods, not meeting his eyes. “I wasn’t at my best, Trigger,” he says. “I was mourning lots of things. The Jedi. J’oh. Ahsoka.”

“I wasn’t either, King. I was first getting an inkling that the Empire wasn’t for me, even though I was pretty big on order.”

Dav reaches over and give Bryne a quick kiss. “What do you need to know about MaDall?”

“You think she knows you aren’t ISB anymore?”

Dav is thoughtful for a moment. “I dunno. Not something my former employers would broadcast. How’re you involved with her?”

“May not be. Involved with some remnants of the slaving on Zygerria. I think that she might have some knowledge of it. Even though Regent Molec vowed to strangle her, since he saw what she was doing as a betrayal.”

“So I guess you want me to snoop around with her a bit?”

“It would be nice.”

“What’s in it for me? I’m trying to stay off of the radar and keep Dek off of it, as well.”

Bryne nods. “I know. I’m just trying to do good for a friend. These slaves we might be trying to save might be some of the ones from Kadavo.”

Dav stares at him. “Is Daina Calanthe involved?”

“I don’t honestly know, Trigger. Her husband is the interim Moff.”

“Daina was the Captain on one of the covering destroyers. She was my squadron commander in the Judicials, before she decided to be a black shoe rather than a zoomie. She served under Secor as well.”

“That going to be a problem?”

Dav is quick to respond. “Nope. My judgement of character is all out of whack. I thought Secor was an honorable man.”

“She has been trying to keep the Zygies out of slavery, but looks like hubby is keeping his hand in.”

Dav shakes his head. “She could play fast and loose with regs when it suited her. She was always looking for a way to pad her retirement. Could be that she just delegated.”

Bryne digests this. 

Kolan smirks. “So, I ask again. What’s in it for me?” He puts his hand out and touches Bryne’s groin. 

“What will Dek say?”

“Why do you think I’m asking? He said he kinda enjoyed the variety on Bothawui, on your ship, while ministering to Nola’s booboos.”

“Really? I never heard about that,” comes a warm voice from the trail. They both turn, feeling the sudden loss of tailoring on their trousers. 

Dani Faygan walks hand in hand with her cousin from the landing field. Bryne smiles at Sina. She gives him a brief smile, but then returns to her pensive expression. He looks at Dani, whose purple eyes speak volumes, as she embraces Dav.

Bryne walks over and embraces her as well, giving her a brief kiss. He looks at Sina, who warms considerably as she touches his lips with hers. “Doctor,” he says against the skin of her neck. He breaks away from them both. “Surprised to see you here, Daaineran.”

Dani gives him her bright smile. “I’m here to see Trigger’s better half. Maybe I’ll get to hear the details of the little tryst with my cousin, here.”

Dav shrugs. “It’s the only reason I’m here, tagging along with Dek.” He moves his hand to his own face, as if concealing his stage whisper from Bryne. “Can’t be for him. He’s not that great of a lay.”

Dani laughs. “Oh, he has his moments. Specially after I taught him a few things.”

Sina giggles, a welcome sound and change from her dark, sad expression. “I can attest to those moments. Experienced a few during my wedding reception.”

Dav’s eyes widen at that. His comm beeps. “Dav’s back at the castle. He helps Maz out with some patient care.” He looks at Sina. “You think you might want to help him while you talk, Doctor?”

All three of the others are floored by the grateful expression on Sina’s thin features. The two turn and move back towards the castle. 

Dav smiles. “You want a drink? I might even buy.”

“Always good to hear,” Bryne says as they take a different path.

* * *

Dani walks in silence towards Maz’s castle. She feels Sina’s warmer hand in hers; her resonance—what Dani can read of it—is strange, filled with confusion. She stops, maintaining her loose grip on Sina’s hand. For a moment, she thinks that Sina is going pull away, and continue walking. Sina stops, exhales, then turns to Dani. Dani takes her other hand in hers. 

For the first few minutes of more silence, Sina’s brown eyes won’t meet hers. Dani drops a hand and reaches up, touching Sina’s chin and lifting her eyes to Dani’s gaze. 

“Talk to me, love,” Dani says softly. “It’s gotten worse, again, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. The Acolyte-Inspector called before I finally made the choice. Both the Inquiring Magistrate and the Prosecuting Magistrate agree. They can’t prosecute him based on the evidence I found.”

Dani’s eyes harden. “Can’t or won’t?”

Sina gives an acerbic smile. “Little of both. I have suspicions that the PMag has ties to Fedden’s campaign warchest.” She looks away; she can feel the tears starting. “Now I’ve shown my hand. As thin-skinned and narcissistic as Alestare Fedden is, he’s going to be able to turn this into a stepping stone to challenge Kanyly when she stands for Zoetarch, at the end of Boman’s term-limit for this cycle.”

“Surely the resonance will choose wisely,” Dani observes. 

“You’d think. But he’s preaching a closer tie to the Empire—for prosperity. He wasn’t born on Zeltros, so he doesn’t have that bond with the Land of Song. He still got elected to the Capitoline Council. Word is that his resonance is so weak that he can barely vote. But he is a Zeltron—at least one quarter. His father’s now an Imperial official.”

“What about his mother?”

Sina shakes her head. “Nobody knows. The bottom line is, I made the decision to resign from the Council. This whatever-it-is gives me a chance to get away from the Land, but I don’t know what to do long-term.” Her eyes tear. “I miss my heart-bonds.”

Dani’s heart twists. She knows what that can mean to a Zeltron, if there isn’t that connection. She’d experienced it herself, at the death Ti. The grief had cut her off from other connections. It had nearly killed her, until certain people had intervened. Until her life had filled with purpose again. She is sure that those heart-bonds, as well as other family, will intervene for Sina.

 _Because they’re alive to do so_. She shoves that thought away.

They both turn as they read another presence walking up to them. Dek Antilles, the nephew of Queen Breha, now a fugitive for deserting an Imperial research job, stands watching them. Without a word he walks over and pulls them into his arms. 

Sina smiles broadly, but wastes no time. “The naf,” she says. 

Dek nods, remaining in their arms. “Yeah. The Zygerrian strain. What makes certain types of Kessel spice more lucrative and sometimes more addictive. I’ve been reading some archives, from a contact on Serenno. Some archives that were liberated from Dooku’s library after the fall.”

Dani breathes out. Ala was reputed to be the grand-niece of the dead Sith Lord and ex-Jedi. “What do they say?” she asks. 

“He did some, well, research, for lack of a better word. You can imagine what that entailed—the use of Force lightning on non-Force users.” Dani sees the disgust in his dark eyes. “He found that this energy affects those others at a cellular level. Just like Ala.

All three are silent as they imagine the pure evil that would foster those experiments. “The archives are missing crucial parts. But they talk about naf being used in some attempted treatments. But there are other ingredients, as well as manipulation of the naf.”

“Manipulation?” Dani asks. 

“Genetic,” Sina replies. “Naf is an organic material—living, even. It’s killed when added to the spice. But since I have— _ha_ —a more robust research facility, Dek and Heg asked me to start the simulations.”

Dani digests this. “I don’t know the science, but I know the politics. The Zygerrians were loath to mine the stuff on their world. It’s a ruinous process. Plus it would need more slave labor.”

Dek shakes his head. “For this use, much smaller amounts are needed. It also needs a more sensitive process for harvesting. Droids would be better.”

Dani nods. “I think I can work with this. I’ve got some people who might be able to get you what you need.”

Sina reaches over and kisses her, before pulling her shorter cousin’s head against her chest. Dani feels her relax, as well as something else welling up in the empathic gift that they share. She sees that Dek can feel it as well.

Purpose.


	18. Witches’ Brew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explosions and memories.

Meglann snaps awake with a cry, sitting up quickly. _Big mistake_ , is her first thought. She looks down at herself, feeling cool air. She realizes that she is in a large bed with the covers pooled around her waist. As she takes a deep breath, she feels a sharp pain. 

A pain that takes up most her torso. She looks down and sees that her ribs are bound tightly; her left arm is hanging from a sling, with tight wrappings around the upper arm and shoulder. She can smell the distinctive odor of bacta on the wrapping. 

“It’s not doing much except for the bruising,” comes a soft voice. She looks over and sees the woman from the last time she was conscious. She gets a better look at her. She is human, but her hair color doesn’t occur in nature on most planets of humans. Her blue eyes are large and round—they remind Meglann of a holo that Bryne had showed her of Ahsoka as a young padawan. Her skin is pale, but with the slight blush of someone who spends time out in the sun. Meglann’s eyes track downwards; she notices another tattoo on her bare midriff. Four arrows at each of the four main compass points, with dagger-like symbols between each, centered on the indentation of her navel. The design looks familiar, from her comparative religion classes at UofA, but she can’t quite place it. _Something from Kuat,_ she thinks.

The woman, who might be a little older than Ahsoka, but not quite as old as Dani and Bryne, returns her gaze. Her eyes are calm and blank, but with at least a hint of humor.

Meglann suddenly remembers she’s been spoken to. “Thanks,” she says. Her eyes narrow. “Where am I?”

“Just a place we found, a little ways from that hoity-toity winebar you were outside of. Your buddy that you were scrapping with got the hell out of dodge. Looked like she got a comm. A minute or so after that, we saw the Imps on their way.”

Meglann catches a glimpse of her face in the mirror. There are several bruises and cuts on her forehead and cheeks, the largest is on her left cheek. The right eye is blackened and swollen. She sees the woman move over to her and start to wipe her face with a warm cloth. There is a hint of a smell of some foreign substance on it, but not bacta. She closes her eyes at the touch. 

“So you saved me from some awkward questions,” she whispers. 

She feels the woman smile from her vantage point above Meglann’s face. “Maybe more. Seems like there was a Zygerrian woman, expensively dressed, talking to the officer. She came out of the bar when the Imps came up.”

Meglann feels the space between her eyebrows shrink. “I know her. I was watching both of them.”

“I figured. Of course, my husband and I have already had a run-in with somebody who is probably one of your friends. Somebody who stuck his nose in our business. A very large clone with a hard head.”

Meglann gives no sign of recognition. “Where is your husband? I’ve got some friends who’d be interested in some of his parlor tricks.” 

“Would one of them be someone named Taliesin Croft?”

Meglann hopes that she continues to keep her face blank. “Don’t know anyone by that name.”

The woman’s eyes remain hard, but one side of her mouth lifts up. “I’m sure, girl. But you can tell him to stay the hell out of my family’s business.” Her voice hardens as well. “Especially my husband’s.”

Meglann keeps her gaze locked on the woman’s. After a couple of minutes, she nods. “Thanks for helping me. I appreciate it, and what you’re trying to do. Some of those that I spoke of, they’re my family, as well.” She feels her eyes grow hard. “I’ll do what I must to protect them.”

The woman nods, then reaches down and kisses Meglann on the tiny bit of space on her cheek that isn’t bruised. She feels her breath on her ear. “My name is Khaleen,” she whispers. She pulls back as Meglann hears a tiny voice from somewhere around Khaleen’s ear. 

Khaleen moves back, rapidly, bringing a pack to her shoulder. She reaches in and pulls an object from a pouch. She flicks her thumb, holding the plunger on the side of the cylindrical object. 

“What the hell?” Meglann asks, coming up even further off of the bed. 

“Some of your friends are sticking their noses in.” As she says that, the door bursts inward, shattering, as a large boot strikes it.

Khaleen tosses the object on the ground in front of the door. “Headache, headache, headache,” she yells. 

The words resonate in Meglann’s ears from her training with the owner of that large boot. The warning to friendlies of the deployment of a stun grenade.

She yanks the side of the mattress and rolls to the wall, slipping into the space between the bed and the wall, widening it with her body. _This is going to hurt_ , she thinks. A part of her wonders why Khaleen had shouted a warning. 

She hears silence. The mattress is yanked up. Drop smirks down at her, then blushes as he realizes that she is apparently only wearing underwear and her bandages. He closes his eyes and helps her up, pulling the mattress up and depositing her on it, very gently. 

She sees Ahsoka open her eyes and drop her hands. Meglann looks at the grenade; it lies inert. Her eyes track over to the now-broken window. Nola moves over to her, and sits on the bed. Ahsoka walks over and pulls her head to her chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Meglann says, looking away. “I fucked up. I let my guard down for a second.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ahsoka and Nola both stare down at her with hard expressions. Meglann’s heart sinks. 

At least until she sees them both looking at each other. Their lips quivering, trying to maintain those expressions. 

“You assholes,” she says. 

Ahsoka reaches down and is about to kiss her, but realizes her lips have a cut through them.  
She follow’s Nola’s lead and kisses her on the opposite ear from Nola. 

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Ahsoka says. “We’ve all done it. Even Drop came out second-best with these two.” She gently headbutts Nola. “Except for Nola. She never makes mistakes.”

Meglann hears a voice that she rarely hears, with a distinctive Pantoran inflection. Usually she gets the insults via comm-text from the antisocial slicer, Ano Lessi. 

“All of you only have one brain cell. I can’t tell which of you is in possession of it at any given moment.”

She sees Ahsoka look at the three individuals who’ve just walked in. She rolls her eyes as she recognizes Sorentin Rhayme, Gral Kruvure, and the Face—Gral’s Twi’lek wife. 

Surprisingly, two of the three— the gigantic Pantoran and Zabrak, have the good sense to look sheepishly at their feet. The Face looks like she might be enjoying their discomfiture. Ahsoka focuses on Rhayme. “So let me get this straight. Your thief of a wife, who the three of you lost, is not only involved with a slaver and quite possibly a rogue Force user, but actually assaulted Meglann?”

They both exercise rare good sense again and remain silent. 

“Speaking of rogue Force assholes, neither you nor Covenant have been forthcoming about the bantha in the room. Two of us have had run-ins with him and he kinda mentioned Tal directly,” Drop says.

“So did his wife,” Meglann observes. She focuses on Ahsoka, who looks down at the floor. 

“His name’s Quinlan Vos. We didn’t know he was alive. Apparently he’s interested in being left alone.”

“Ya think?” Meglann and Drop reply in stereo.

* * *

The Zabrak’s gray-green eyes fix on the watcher as he lies in his arms on a distant, dying world. A world torn apart by the watcher’s own actions. 

A brother dying because of those actions. 

The vision of Savage Opress’s body transformed back into what was into its original, smaller form. Smaller, but still with the strength that he’d depended on in his thirst for revenge. His face calm as he breathed his last words to his brother.

Maul forces the memory from his mind. His vision comes back to the nondescript cockpit of the small ship. The chaos of hyperspace flashes into his senses as the memory fades and moves into its own compartment.

He looks down at the fragile, ancient text resting in his lap in the pilot’s seat. The book’s pages are marked with a language that he can’t understand. The language of his birthworld, but one he’d never been able to learn, before he’d been taken from his world. 

He lifts his comm and runs it over the pages. The words jump out at him on the screen in aurabesh. He doesn’t need them right this moment. He’ll need them when the small object depicted on the page is found. A plain ceramic crock that can be held in the palm of one’s hand, The same arcane writing on its gray surface. An object containing a variation of the substance that had restored both him and and his brother, in different ways. 

A variation that was forbidden to use, even to the Nightsisters. Forbidden because it could take a part of the user away and give it to who it was being applied to. 

A part that could restore life, even without a full physical body. Only the memory of the dead in the user’s mind and a small part was needed. He opens his left hand and looks down at what lies there. The small temple horn of his brother, that had turned loose from his head in the final fight. 

An object that Maul had kept with him throughout the years since. Somehow. 

He looks at the representation of the urn again, with its writing and the representation of the Nightsister. His anger spikes as he thought of how close he’d come six years ago. The crock had been in his possession on Mandalore, just before his former master’s troops—the ones who’d eventually turned on their Jedi generals—had attacked. 

Jedi including Lady Tano, the young Togruta outcast who’d faced him. Who’d somehow, with the help of her allies, been able to best him. 

A smile grows over his face. Until she’d been forced to let him go, in order to give her and her pet clone—one that somehow she’d been able to subvert to her own control, rather than his master’s. He’d heard the words over the comm he’d taken, along with the trooper’s arm, that the clone was subject to being shot down on sight, just as Tano and Maul themselves were.

He idly wonders if Tano and her pet had managed to survive the chaos that he had wrought on the Republic destroyer. He smiles tightly. He wonders if she regretted her decision to release him. He hadn’t given them much of a chance, when he had taken the last shuttle remaining that was working, only just managing to break free of her powerful Force-beckon.

This same shuttle. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the beeping of his comm. He pulls the large ring from his left index finger and inserts it into the comm. 

Dryden Vos’s colorless face forms above the console. He dips his head. “My lord.”

“I have directly contacted your operative, Dryden,” Maul says by way of greeting.

Vos’s pale eyes remain expressionless, except for the rising of one blonde eyebrow. “As you wish my lord. She is your operative as well. May I ask if we have changed our direction on Zygerria? To let them continue the reinstitution their slaving empire?”

Maul nods after a moment. “I care nothing for what the Zygerrians are doing. They are the remnants of the Separatist experiment of my former master.” He stops, seeing Vos’s confusion. “They are dying.”

“I agree my lord,” Vos continues, “but they have something we need, if our spice smuggling operations are going to continue, we’ll need their supply of the naf additive. They are among the last known reserves of it. They’d never harvested it from their world, because of how ruinous the process can be.”

Maul says nothing. “They never had to when they had their empire. They could use subject planets that it was on.”

“Yes. Most of those planets don’t seem to want to continue taking the naf. We don’t have the resources to take it from them. We’re still working on negotiating, but the Zygerrians show the most promise.”

“Perhaps if we continue to explore other options, we can move away from spice altogether,” Maul says pointedly. 

“I know, my lord,” Vos says smoothly. “But coaxium is still unstable enough to be dangerous.”

Maul’s eyes fix on him. “Perhaps. But if I’m right, the person that Q’ira has found for me has some information on that. I’d put him in charge of finding a solution. He has something of equal importance to me, but I’d like to know what he had done with the information.”

Vos says nothing, merely nods. Maul deactivates the comm. As it fades, he thinks about the possibilities that Q’ira had sent him. 

The possibility that he would have a brother again, one with who he could rule the galaxy’s underbelly. All while finding a way for Maul to exact revenge on Sidious. 

His own revenge, and that of Savage’s, rather than the galaxy’s. 

They could rule together as brothers, rather than the old way of master and apprentice.

As family. A way that Maul had finally realized was the way forward. 

It had taken that loss to make him realize this.


	19. Partnerships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch dates and hospital visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early for the holiday. I hope that the New Year is as warm and happy for everyone as it can, as 2020 turns 21.

Nola stands outside the small café. She surreptitiously looks all around her, wondering as she does if her paranoia is getting the better of her, after what had happened to Meglann. She curses to herself, then walks across the thoroughfare towards the entrance. There are differences. The winebar that Zara Molec had chosen—her meeting place of choice—wasn’t in what passed for a small human enclave in the capital city of his world, like this café is.

For another, she is meeting with someone who might be an ally against whatever hard-on that Zara has against her and Meglann.

Nola hopes. She stops again, directly in front of the large window. A quick scan and she sees that her appointment isn’t there. She walks in and greets the human host. A quick haggle about reservations—the defense mechanism of snobby hosts the galaxy over—and a few extra credits his way, she is seated in a light, airy section of the dining area, with a good view of the door and other exits. Her booth is surrounded with fragrant flowers, but ones that don’t overpower. They also serve to keep the conversation in the booth appropriately muffled. A quick scan of her datapad ensures that the booth holds no other surprises that might broadcast her conversation.

Nola sits back and takes a sip of her mineral water. As she does, she thinks of two young women that are in her sphere. One, who she has shared dangers and light with over the last couple of years—especially in the last year or so, who is now on her way off of this world. She closes her eyes at the sight of Meglann’s stricken face, as Ahsoka gently asked her to go and support Dani, in her operations on what was developing as another part of this caper.

“It’s not a punishment, ‘glann,” Ahsoka whispered into Meglann’s small ear, under the tied back curls. “You made a tiny mistake, one that could be fixed, but you’re on the radar of Zara and the Imp, more so than you were yesterday.” Nola felt Meglann’s body tense, then her shoulders slump as both of them held the youngest in their arms, against them. “I also need you to heal properly. That means a night in bacta, now, not when we can get around to it. That means you go with Shyla. I may send Boge, Murta, and the _Draq’stone_ to follow so that you can give support to Dani and Sina, as well as maybe watch Dav Kolan’s back while he deals with another branch of the slavers.”

Meglann had finally accepted the reasoning, if not actually liking it. Shyla had sent them a holo of Meglann resting in bacta, her eyes closed and dreaming while she healed.

Nola smiles to herself at Ahsoka’s tenderness with Meglann as they had parted. Both had continued to hold her, even as Shyla looked on patiently, with her own version of tenderness in her dark eyes. Her smile fades as she thinks of the other young woman. The one actually walking towards her, the host obsequiously moving behind her. Nola notices that others in the dining area, the light early lunch crowd all lock their eyes on the young woman. A young woman who moves with more confidence than she appears to feel.

Nola rises and holds out both hands, even as Q’ira holds out only her right for a handshake. She corrects and smiles warmly. She stands on her tiptoes and touches her lips to Nola’s cheek, surprising her.

They sit opposite one another, their eyes gazing at their faces. The server droid comes and recounts the specials on the screen on his torso. Nola reaches out and touches a particular vintage, ordering a bottle. They start to peruse the menu on the datapads that had detached from the droid.

She notices that Q’ira is very careful in what she looks at—keeping the pages on the salads and small plates. She notices her looking back on a particular entrée—a lunch-sized nerf-steak with the trimmings. Nola feels her heart spasm, as she realizes the issue. Without a word, she reaches over and touches the selection on the datapad. Q’ira looks up in anger, but calms as Nola smiles warmly. Without a word, Q’ira returns her smile carefully and touches her preferred temperature on the screen.

“CEC gives me an expense account,” she says. “I’ll get lunch.” She looks up at the Twi’lek headwaiter who smiles at them both. “Some bread, I think,” she says.

They’re silent until the bread is brought. As she watches Q’ira tear into the bread, though with impeccable manners, Nola finally realizes where she’d seen Q’ira before. A brief trip to the Coronet spaceport to meet a contact, several months ago.

She’d gritted her teeth at the desperation she’d felt as people tried to escape their lives on Corellia. Her contact hadn’t shown, she had been just about to leave, when she’d spied the disturbance at the gate. A young woman, seized by Grindalid thugs and Imperial troops, separated from a young man on the other side. She’d remembered the name that the young woman had shouted as she was torn from him.

_Han._

She realizes that the same young woman is talking to her. She comes back to the present. Q’ira looks at her for a moment, then smiles.

“I was just saying,” Q’ira says, “but I’d heard that one of yours ran afoul of Zara.”

Nola comes back to the matter at hand. “Yes. I’m not exactly pleased that not only did someone who had just met with Zara attacked her, but that Zara seemed to be directing the Imperial troops that she’d summoned to find my assistant.”

Q’ira nods. “I know. Zara was already ranting about her this morning to me.” Nola raises her eyebrows at this. They are interrupted by the meals. Nola watches as Q’ira politely waits for her to start in on her salad before proceeding to demolish the steak and root vegetables.

Nola loves several beings who eat like this. She knows that it is only because of their high metabolisms, that they need thousands more calories to maintain their energy. Q’ira’s devouring is because she has known something else.

Abject hunger. Not knowing where the next meal would come from.

Nola had grown up poor, before her father had been able to start his own company. He’d been the resident maintenance manager of an apartment building. They’d wanted for a lot when she was young, but they’d always had what they needed and they’d had a roof over their head. They’d never known hunger—although several meals of the week had been taken up with whitefish sticks.

Q’ira obviously had.

She waits for Q’ira to finish before her sales pitch. A sales pitch that might help to drive a wedge between the two who are trying to sell the slaves.

“So do you think that Jadhic is on the same page with Zara? Trying to intimidate us?” she asks Q’ira.

The young Corellian looks pensive for a moment. “I don’t know. He may be playing all of us against one another. Including her.”

Nola finishes her wine. She lifts the menu again, looks at it and taps something into it. “I think that since we aren’t competing for what they’re selling, we might be wanting to stay on the same page,” she says quietly.

Q’ira nods after a moment. “That might be a good idea. Zara has already tried to interest me in undercutting your pricepoint, but as I said, my employers have no interest in any inventory of that sort. We’re merely trying to help the Zygies get out of the slaving business.”

Two wrapped pastries come, with a small box. The server places them in front of Q’ira, whose eyes grow large.

“Thought you could use these,” Nola says.

Q’ira starts to shake her head. Nola reaches out and touches her lips with her fingers. She gazes at Q’ira.

“It’s okay. It’s not my money. Enjoy them.”

The look on Q’ira’s face is fleeting, before the ‘I-must-maintain-the-scumbag-look’ returns. Along with something else.

“I think we should maintain a front. Or at least see if they’ll try to divide us,” Q’ira says. They both rise, then walk towards the exit.

It seems only natural for Nola to put her hand on Q’ira’s back, bare under the slight capelet. She feels Q’ira’s breathing grow a tiny bit more rapid. She moves her fingers up the young woman’s spine, then rests them on her delicate neck.

Right on top of the slight rise of the mark on her neck. Nola’s exhales raggedly as she sees the mark—more brand than tattoo.

As they take their leave, Nola finds an alley and moves into, resting her back on the wall. She puts her face in her hands. She thinks of another that she has befriended, another that she has used in the cause. One that she isn’t sure that they won’t face each other with weapons pointed at each other.

Rae Sloane’s dark features and her grin are foremost in her mind. Q’ira’s face with its paler skin and wide smile joins her thoughts. She wonders if they’re both just substitutes for those that Nola hadn’t been able to save. Ones that she may fail, yet again.

* * *

Soma Jess opens her eyes. She wonders at what point will she give up the the charade of that name and that life and return to the one that she was born with.

At least the one that she was born with when she was Found. She dares not speak the two names that she was born with, from the mountain clan of the Tezhic Nightsisters. One of which she could share with no one else.

The woman reborn as Chraina Rook, then as Chraina Loren shakes thoughts of the past away. She runs over the plot in her mind, of what she knows so far. She grits her teeth, wondering if she has made it too complicated, as she’d intimated to Atai Molec.

She feels a slight twinge in the gift from her clan—her limited Force sense. A gift that was a double-edged sword, in that it mainly forced her to rely on other, less ethereal gifts. Such as the one that she’d managed to coat two of those totems with, before the ship had taken off on its fateful voyage.

A substance that even now had found its way into her Force sense, in a place that she’d never expected it to. In the mind of a young woman that she’d once met before. Through a bond that she had no idea how it had formed. She licks her lips at the tastes of some of those sensations through that bond. She curses as she loses concentration. She calms herself, by marveling at how her disability in the Force had turned her into something unique, when coupled with some of the magicks of her birth-clan, with its own secret name.

A clan of tricksters. The ability to obfuscate within the Force. The ability to track someone from an object over light years and dozens of chronological years.

She again puts the past aside. Chraina lifts the datapad and inserts the end of the totem—the mythosaur. Not the original, but a copy. One that her thief of a daughter—a disappointment when she hadn’t inherited any of the magicks—had managed to make, when she hadn’t been able to wrest it from that dolt of a Chancellor—one who had been adopted into her original Mando clan a few years before her, after stealing it from the Unwanteds during the Sieges.

She watches as the file begins to load into the totem. She lifts her comm and signals a particular code. A young woman floats over the projector. A tall young woman, with golden skin and dark eyes, as well as a particular skill in theoretical engineering. One that she had last seen as she had broken another engineer out from the same Pyke enclosure on Kessel. One that her sources had said was the true brains behind the coaxium research.

“Hello, my dear,” she says. “I’ll have you out soon.”

The woman stares at her. “See that you do, if you want the last piece of that research you stole.”

* * *

Dani watches as her cousin checks the young woman’s vitals. Meglann lies on the medical bed in the medbay of the _Jamestyn’s Hope._ A single sheet is draped over her to her chest. Dani’s eyes tear as she sees the fading bruises and cuts on her face, as well as on her left arm and shoulder.

Sina looks at her with a a mixture of professional detachment and warmth. Dani does smile tenderly. The warmth would be for anyone; this is the hallmark of a Zeltron healer

There is a little extra, as Sina remembers Meglann from the joys of the wedding reception, as well as the fact that the young woman is almost family with the bonding of the Links. Dani moves her eyes back to Meglann’s peaceful face. She wonders what Meglann’s life would’ve been like if she’d stayed as a diner owner, full-time, rather than joining the Colors. Would she have become one of the Links of the Covenant Chain? _She’d have spent a lot less time in bacta and medbeds. It would’ve probably only delayed the inevitable. Like others of her loves, this one would fight._ She notices that Meglann’s eyes are moving slightly under the lids.

She sees that Sina is watching her. “She’s sleeping, Dani-love,” Sina says. She touches Meglann’s cheek, then her forehead, moving a slightly damp curl from her forehead. She looks at Dani, her expression pointed. “I have to do some stuff to finish her healing,” Sina says. Dani smirks briefly, then nods. She walks over and touches Meglann’s hair, before touching her lips with her own. Her empathic resonance spikes with just a hint of calm from the girl, amplified from the beginning of Sina’s healing resonance surging, focused only on her injuries. Dani turns and walks towards the hatch. She sees Sina’s amber eyes transition to the black; she reaches over and kisses her as she passes.

She stops just outside the bacta room, her breath stops as she stares at Shyla Merricope standing in the main medbay area. She’d known this would happen, that they’d see each other, but she’d hoped to avoid the meeting until she was more prepared.

For at least a week. She watches as a young woman dressed in purple beskargam, but without the helmet that some think a religious act of apostasy to go without in public. The woman looks at her with dark, knowing eyes, before turning away.

Shyla stands watching her, unable to move or speak. Much like Dani. A sob, from who she’s not sure, sounds and the bars are down. Dani feels the tight embrace of her former lover, as she hears soothing words whispered in her ears.

She’s sure that Shyla hears a few from her. They break away and stare at each other. Dani makes the first move, as their lips meld. Their tongues seek each other out as they simply breathe for one another.

As they simply live. After a minute or five, they break away, realizing that they are in a public area and might be exhibiting conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline. Even on a slightly illegal Corellian corvette.

Dani’s people wouldn’t be concerned with such a mild exhibition, but she is a serving officer in a paramilitary organization. She moves over to the couches in the waiting area; there is no one in the medbay, but she is sure that her resonance might be broadcasting out in the passageways, as she tries not to interfere with Sina’s healing resonance.

Shyla rolls her eyes as watches her struggle with transitioning her eyes away from the obsidian of strong emotion. She pulls Dani’s head onto her shoulder, a way that they had used to sit in quiet moments.

“I’ve missed you, Dani,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m not what you wished me to be, all those years ago when you were my intern.”

Dani manages to keep the catch from her voice. “You are. You’ve never lost that status in my eyes, Shy,” she replies. “You’ve struggled so much, but you always fought for what’s right.” She reaches up and kisses Shyla’s ear. “You’ve stumbled. Even when everybody thought you were the perfect Diktat. But you kept fighting.”

“Until I didn’t anymore. Until the Empire made me run with my tail between my legs.”

Dani lifts up and looks at her. “You’re moving in the depths of the worst scum in the galaxy. All because of an idea. An idea that you swore an oath to as Diktat. One that you’ve never renounced.”

Shyla is quiet. Dani can see her that her eyes are damp. She reaches up and kisses one, the other eye. She can taste the salt of the tears.

Shyla shakes her head, then pulls Dani’s head back to her shoulder. They sit in silence for several moments.

“So what’s your cousin and the Queen’s nephew up to?”

Dani breathes out. “We may have an angle. The naf additive to spice that the Zygerrians have. We may have a different use for it. One that could help someone that’s important to the Elector-Presumptive.”

Shyla doesn’t move. “Jamelyn’s mother.”

“Yeah. Sina, Dr. Hegridhara, and Dr. Antilles think there could be many more uses. The Zygerrian naf might be susceptible to genetic manipulation.”

“So this could get the Zygerrians out of the slave business for good?”

“If somebody can convince either or both of the Molecs. There might also be some stuff in the warehouses somewhere.”

Shyla moves her nose through Dani’s fragrant hair. “This changes things. I may have an in. But I may need you. Especially if you can rescue any slaves and ensure they’re out of the slaving business.” She lifts up and kisses Dani on the lips. “I may need you, though. It’s good that you’re a Zeltron.” She grins mischievously. “They’re helping us already. They’re going to deliver the Moff’s new Corellian snack to him.”

Dani rolls her eyes. “Does the snack know that?”

“Should be finding out soon.”

Dani thinks about the parts that all of them play in this drama, as she and Shyla remove their clothing in her quarters. She only hope it remains a comedy for the moment, that the tragedy stays in the future for as long as possible.


	20. The New Gardener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can’t tell the sun from the moon.

The woman walks out from the large building into the desert air, several armed thugs of various species surrounding her. Dav Kolan watches her move through the streets of this small city. Without a word he gets up and follows her at a discreet distance. He smiles as he sees the tension in at least one of her minders as he turns down the same street. Another minder, this one closer to MaDall, whispers into her ear. 

Dav continues to move forward, even though the five have now stopped and then turned down an alley. He takes a breath and rounds the corner. The four thugs have various weapons out; MaDall has her favorite energy whip out as well. Her eyes widen as they fall on him, the others have less readable expressions as they level their blasters. 

“Hello, MaDall,” he says evenly. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest; his blaster is visible on his hip. 

She lifts her lip into a sneer, although Dav privately thinks that there’s no change on her face. “What do you want?”

“Oh, just checking in. I need some information. About those relatives who tossed your skinny ass off of Zygerria because you fucked the eopie and dealt in clonetroopers.”

“I don’t know if I have to say anything to you. I heard you’re not ISB any more. So I could kill you with impunity and no one could do anything about it.”

“Oh, somebody could,” comes a bright voice behind her. MaDall starts as the barrel of a heavy blaster rests against against her skull, just under the large right ear. Dav raises an eyebrow at the teenager holding the blaster without any hint of discomfort about its heft or about using it. Dek steps out from the small door, along with a Zeltron woman—one that Dav had seen with Covenant and Dani on Takodana. 

He narrows his eyes at the three, especially Dek. He notices that his love is the only one unarmed; the Zeltron woman rests what looks like a small Corellian blaster on her thigh. He searches for a name, but remembers her title, at least. Dav concentrates on Dek. “What are you doing here, nerd?”

“Well, I was apparently helping Dr. Faygan’ii na Torstan’ii look after another of those idiots who seem to get themselves hurt time and again.” He gives the young human—Meglann—a pointed look. Dav notices the healing cuts and bruises that cover most of her face. “But I thought I’d add the extra duty of keeping my prime dumbass from doing anything stupid.” He gives Dav a look, as well. “When you walked into an alleyway, cornering several thugs and a slaver, did you have a plan to get out alive, Chaos?”

Dav doesn’t answer, merely pulls his arms from across his chest. He shows the four thugs the small grenade. “Yep. I was going to use this droid-popper on them. Much more painful than a stun grenade to flesh-and-blood.” He looks at MaDall, then at her whip. “But since you’re all here, maybe you could join MaDall and me for brunch.”

After only a little bit of negotiations with the four bodyguards, that involve no blasterfire, they are seated inside a small restaurant, the stone keeping the arid heat at bay. 

“I’m only giving you this interview as a courtesy, Kolan,” MaDall says. She smirks. “I don’t want to show you up in front of your boyfriend and his little group.” Her look becomes more appraising as she concentrates on _Sina—that’s her name_. “If, however, you’re in the market to sell this Zeltron, I could give you a good price; I’ve got several in my stocks.”

Meglann leans over and gives Sina a quick kiss before her eyes lose some of the their sparkle. “Let’s get something straight. I’ve had a really shitty couple of days. I’d really rather be back on our ship, exploring some more Zeltron healing techniques with Dr. Faygan’ii.” She gives Sina a definite look. “She and I are only here to back Dek up, because he wanted to make sure that Dav didn’t do something he might regret later. Like taking a knife and exposing your guts in the morning sun. But if you make another crack like that, I might do some carving of my own.” Her face remains calm and expressionless. “Or, I’ll go up to my ship and see if the captain’ll let me firebomb the shit out of your little operation here from orbit.”

Dav smiles without mirth; he says nothing. Sina and Dek look at Meglann with widened eyes. 

MaDall breathes out. “What do you need? Make it quick. My patience might wear thin.” Dav has known her bluster before, he can tell that she might just be rattled by Meglann’s words. 

“Your kinfolk are looking to move about 500 to 1000 Togruta. Nobody’s seen any examples. Are they some of yours that you’re graciously lending them?” Dav asks.

MaDall is silent as she finishes the ritual of fixing her tea. “No. I don’t have any Togruta in my inventory. There hasn’t been a lot of movement since Kadavo.”

Dav digests this. “Then what are they selling?”

She remains silent. “MaDall,” he says with more than a hint of menace. She still takes her time answering. 

“I had nothing to do with this. But I have managed to build a relationship with Atai’s daughter. She reached out to me, wanting some pointers. I might’ve connected her with a colleague in the business. Someone I don’t know very well so they couldn’t be traced to me, but I knew they might be willing to front some high-quality units. A couple of dozen or so.”

“So they don’t actually have a large number?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of deal they had going. This colleague that I don’t know might actually be willing to partner with the daughter of the former head of the great Zygerrian slave empire.

“Or they could just be selling dreams.”

* * *

Q’ira concentrates on her datapad as the noise from the other lounge continues unabated. She lies in the sun, around a bright pool. She touches her arm, making sure that the sunscreen is activated, so that her pale skin, which for many years had barely seen the light of day in the scrums of Coronet wouldn’t burn like a Grindalid’s. She smirks as she thinks of Lady Proxima squealing even in the dim sunlight that reached the lower levels. Q’ira forces the memory away before it shows something else. Something she has tried to forget. 

She looks over at her companion. Jadhic Sander-Calanthe is clad in a pair of bathing trunks; he continues to wax poetic, pontificating about profit margins and cash reserves. She sighs. She’d heard more compelling lectures about the same subject from Dryden’s instruction—instruction punctuated by a surprisingly dry wit. 

In spite of all the threats before the training, making sure she knew her place in the universe. After her several escape attempts and killings of a few guards, he’d reiterated her place, but had given her more and more training, training that could be dangerous to him, as well as breeding an independence in her. He’d also given her more and more responsibility, along with the training and the bit of autonomy. 

The brand on the nape of her neck, under her hair marked her as Crimson Dawn’s to the galaxy that knew of such things. She breathes out as she remembers Nola Tamsin’s touch on her bare skin, as she had lightly dragged her fingers up her spine and rested them on the mark. She looks down at herself, can see her pale skin flush slightly. She looks over at Jadhic, who appears engrossed in his lecture. She stands up, looking at him, then removes the top of her tank suit. She stares challengingly at the fleet trooper, who keeps his eyes locked forward. She turns and lies on her stomach. She hopes that the reaction she feels against the lounge is for Nola’s touch, rather than Jadhic’s economic lecture. She drowses as the warm sun’s kiss grows on her back. 

Her mind flows back to the lunch with Nola. She doesn’t know what to make of how the tall young woman had treated her, plying her with food. She wasn’t sure if Nola looked upon her hunger as a weakness to exploit. Q’ira shakes her head. There’d been no indication of that. Just pure kindness, in a galaxy that had shown Q’ira that was rare. She wonders if Nola will use her perceived weakness at some other time—that would be more likely, in Q’ira’s experience. She keeps her eyes closed as she focuses on the warm smile on Nola’s thin, slightly angular face—only slightly. A warm smile that seemed to be sincere, albeit with a great dear of devilment and snark, along with laughter. At least that was the impression that Q’ira’s limited experience gave her.

She opens her eyes and lifts her head from where it is pillowed on her arms. She pulls her sunshades over her eyes and rises. Jadhic is still wound up; she turns and walks over to where the server droid rests behind a small bar. She looks out over the city from the high vantage point. She hears voices on the other side of the hedge dividing the pool area from a larger garden. She tunes in for a moment. Words from two different voices in a very different language with trills and missing parts, as if it was in a register higher or lower than humans can hear, move through her brain. The one speaking now is a high voice, as if from a teenager. The other voice is high and clear, but with some gravity behind it—an older woman. She tunes back out as she hears the bright laughter from both of them, followed by a loud thump. 

Her comm buzzes from where it rests against her skin in her suit bottoms. She recognizes the code; she touches her earring and connects it to the comm. 

Dryden Vos’s face appears in her sunshade lens. He looks at her with a bit of hunger, then nods. 

“Hello, darling,” he says quietly. “What do you have to report?”

“Nothing so far. The players are in place. Still trying to figure out Atai Molec’s place in this,” she whispers. 

“The ships should be on their way. They’re expendable, as are their crews.” He raises his eyebrow. “Anything about the naf?”

“Not a whisper,” she replies. 

“What about the Corellians?”

“Not sure what their game is; they have the money. But something’s off.”

After a moment, he nods. “Understood. If anything they do threatens our aims, or the goal of our Founder, slaughter them.” Dryden gives a skull-like smile. “You may get to demonstrate some of your newfound Teras Kasi skills.” He clicks off.

Charming, she thinks. She activates her comm, sending another code, then reaching up and replacing the earring with the other hand. 

Irnalyn’s crimson face smiles warmly and with only a tiny bit of lust as she looks at Q’ira. Lust that was so much different from Dryden’s. There was genuine warmth on her face, as well as that of her son, who sits next to her on a couch. Both appear to be lounging by a pool, as she is.

Irnalyn maintains the smile as Q’ira speaks. “Still trying to figure out what’s going on here.” 

His mother looks at Herjen, then nods at her. “Understood. There may be something there that piques my curiosity. I won’t ask you to do anything to endanger your life or your loyalty, but may ask you to help an agent I’m sending. Our interests aren’t competing in this. We both, for our own reasons, want to stop the slaving.”

Q’ira nods. “Very well, Mother. What can I do to help your agent?”

Irnalyn and Herjen smirk at one another, then at Q’ira. She feels warmth grow somewhere around her suit bottoms. She wonders if that certain affect that Irnalyn had on her during their training can be transmitted over the Holonet. “Nothing much. You may just have to facilitate their, ah, engagement with the Moff.” She reaches out over the waves and places her virtual hand against Q’ira’s cheek. “Guess you’ll get to use some of my training. You’ll have to leave a review on my holosite. With every detail.”

She looks over at the Moff. A snore comes from the lounge. Q’ira sighs. “I can think of others that I’d rather use that training on,” she whispers to herself. “This agent better be worth it.”

She thinks of at least one person she’d rather demonstrate the skills with and on. A tall Corellian woman, or at least someone who works for Q’ira’s birthworld. A vision of Nola’s pale skin under her lips appears in her mind. 

The flash of a young man’s face, last seen as she is dragged away by a White Worm, trips as well.

As it always does, since that day.

* * *

The Regent of Zygerria watches as the old YV-865 _Aurore_ freighter, with purple interspersed through its grayness arcs in for a landing. His eyes narrow at the old ship, once the mainstay of his world’s empire. An empire built upon commerce, and free trade. He looks around the deserted landing field, one that had once been filled with these ships, bringing their cargos full of lesser beings.

He notices that the ship is escorted by a a gray CR-90 corvette. One that had already been on his world, if only for an instant, long enough to drop off one passenger. 

Atai Molec walks over to the lowering ramp of the 865. He feels his anger rise as several beings walk off of the ship, all of them squinting against the bright sun, as if having spent months in darkness. 

The Togruta shuffle into a line, their neck collars linked. He calms his anger as he sees MaDall’s mark on the collars. He nods, but shakes his head, wondering if this is what his daughter was planning. To swindle the Corellians with these broken down specimens—ones who could never survive working in the CEC meatgrinder. His eyebrow raises curiously as he sees several healthy adult males and females interspersed among them. _Ahh_ , he thinks, _my girl does have some brains. Seeding the pot._

Atai stares at the figures gently pushing the units towards the transport. The sight of Mando armor brings back memories of the raid that had ended the last remnants of the resurging slave empire. Two Mandos, a Naboo handmaiden and Royal Guard, and a broken clonetrooper had ended the last gasps of a proud tradition. 

All because his kinswoman had trusted outsiders. Much like his daughter is now, with the corrupt Imperial interim moff. He paints a wide smile on his face as he thinks of what has been set in motion with his daughter’s actions. With only a little push from him—a slipped transmission, a suggestion here or there. Another to that wayward kinswoman, with a hint of forgiveness. 

Forgiveness that would never happen.

He wonders if his daughter will survive this entire scheme. 

Atai’s thoughts are interrupted by one of the Mandos walking up to him. A woman, clad in rich purple armor, a WESTAR blaster on one side and some sort of large custom blaster on the other. Oddly, he thinks of how the usual symmetry of two WESTARS is interrupted. The Mando stares at him.

It is the figure next to her that draws his attention. A human woman of medium height, her grass green eyes observing him. He notes that even though she appears to be approaching what passes for middle age in a human, she apparently still has all of the pleasing parts that would fetch a higher price. 

Those eyes convince him that it wouldn’t be worth the investment. “Regent,” she says in a dry voice. 

He dips his head briefly. “I don’t know how to address you,” he replies. 

The beginnings of a smile cross her features. “You can call me Regent, as well.”

“Oh? Regent of what?”

“Regent of your pursestrings.”

He stares at her. 

“I bring you the greetings of Kanjiklub,” she says. “As well as their new business partner. Malaky.”

She and the Mando step aside. Atai Molec feels his anger flare as a Zeltron woman steps out. “You!” he shouts. He looks around for a guard.

“Calm yourself, Atai,” Irnalyn Zabrin says quietly. He notices that the purple-skinned male next to her, keeps his hand on his blaster. 

“I used to own you,” he says deliberately. “You’re a fugitive slave.”

“Lots of beings used to own me. The Hutt on my world was most notable, but he’s also the one I most want to run my sword down his length, gutting him the whole way.” He notices a blade across her back, the grip at least a hand-and-a-half in length.

“There is a slight correction in your words. You used to own me, but now I own you. I’m the one that’s been slowly relieving you of your financial accounts over the past year or so.”

He says nothing, merely looks at her with loathing. She turns to her Regent, then reaches over and kisses her. Atai ignores the emotions being projected to him, emotions from both women, magnified and reflected.

“So why are you here?”

“To make sure that you don’t do anything stupid. Lots of plans being put in motion. Some I could care less about. Others I want to see them through, because they will help me with my eventual aims. To free all of my people from my world. To exact my revenge on a galaxy for their suffering.”

Atai sees the human woman glance at the Zeltron, something unreadable in her eyes. There is a commotion behind them. Atai glances up to see several of the Mandos struggling with something. 

Or someone. 

One of the Mandos goes down from a shove. Another swings a carbine butt, connecting with what sounds like flesh. Another Mando joins her fellow on the ramp. 

The woman in the purple armor curses and walks over to the scrum. Atai is just able to glimpse a human male, his arms bound and linked to his legs. The male looks up at him. He gets the impression of gray hair and ocean-green eyes, a defiant expression on his scarred face. The lead Mando walks over and punches him in the jaw. 

The human spits out blood and grins at her—an infuriating grin. She draws her blaster—the custom one, drawing back the lever at the back of the cylinder. After a second of contemplation, she moves her finger to the front and pushes another button, then pulls the trigger. 

A larger than normal stun ring streaks towards him, knocking him back at least two meters. The Mando jerks her head at her minions, who pick him up. 

“A Corellian distraction for your moff. I understand he appreciates that culture. He’s got all of his parts; some business partners of mine want him out of the way. He’s of noble blood, so you might get some breeding use out of him after the moff tires of him.” She smiles. “It might be poetic justice. He’s one of the three that put you out of business the last time.”

Atai stares at the human as he is dragged away. _Added benefits to my plan_ , he thinks.


	21. The Hunt Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charm, or something like it.

Ahsoka watches as Jillan moves quietly through the small parkland, located several kilometers away from the Imperial residence. She glares at the fleet trooper, whose flared helmet impacts with a low hanging branch. _It’s too bad that I can’t show him my teeth,_ she thinks. A slight touch of the Force and he hastily turns away.

 _And don’t you forget it. I’ve made stormies strip naked and walk off hand in hand into the wilderness before, bud,_ she thinks without projecting, remembering at least one other occasion.

As she closes down the connection, she feels two things. One, a wave of a familiar signature, marked by a green, purple, and gold light, warms her from her heart and head on downward.

She stops at the other sensation. A slight taste of ashes, one that usually presages contact with a darksider, permeates her mouth, as well as her brain. She makes sure that her shielding is tight. She shakes her head, bringing her concentration back to her charge. She allows herself a small smile—one not visible, of course—as the young woman’s echolocation sounds in her own montrals. The connection is shaky, but Ahsoka can still tell that Jillan is able to paint a picture in her mind of her surroundings. She laughs to herself as she sees Jillan leap, capturing one of the small rodents native to this world and this area. She rolls her eyes as Jillan’s upturned little nose turns further upwards as she immediately releases the animal. _I don’t blame her. They’re nowhere near as sweet as themiar_ , she thinks, remembering small rodents that are a staple of Togruta on her world, at least in the wilds.

She sees Jillan’s head come up, as her senses lock on something else. Something coming down the path. Ahsoka’s eyes narrow as she sends out a passive version of her own gift. She starts towards the woman, prepared to use the Force if necessary, to sprint and intercept her.

She doesn’t have to; she reaches the girl and yanks her into the bushes.

Just as a squad of stormtroopers pass by.

“What the hell, Tah-eacher?” she starts, remembering the rules about public use of Ahsoka’s family name. “We’ve got our own little shadow,” as she points to the fleet trooper who has now turned to look at them, after saluting the detachment of troops.

“You’re not ready to stalk prey that big, girl,” Ahsoka says evenly. “I heard you. You were only able to lock on them because of the numbers. Those aren’t fleet troopers like our moron,” she says. “Those are stormtroopers. Much more heavily indoctrinated than other Imperial troops. They wouldn’t have been amused as much with you standing in their path with your eyes closed while you locked.”

“I’m getting much better. I could’ve tracked them,” Jillan says. Ahsoka tries not to remark on the plaintive quality of her voice.

Plaintive bordering on whiny.

“Come on, my little rat,” she says, pulling Jillan’s neck towards hers in a hug. She pulls down her mask quickly, then kisses her on the left lek. “You done good, sweetie,” she whispers into the lek’s primary hearing receptor. She starts, then pulls up her mask.

“Track,” she whispers. “Identify.”

Jillan’s brow furrows in concentration; she sniffs the air. After a second, she nods. “Human. Kinda tall.” She smiles. “Smells like something cedar. Mixed in with musk. She may have mated recently?” Ahsoka chokes at that. “No,” Jillan continues. “It’s just been on her mind, though, maybe.”

Nola steps into the hidden alcove of vegetation.

“Did somebody mention sex?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Ahsoka replies, before Jillan can speak. “What the hell have you been doing? Or, should I say, who have you been doing?”

Nola rolls her eyes as she sees the expression on both of the Togruta faces. “Damned Smirk’s genetic, isn’t it. Nobody yet,” she adds.

Ahsoka smiles, then reaches over, pulling Nola into a tight hug. Nola’s eyes grow tender; they both can see Jillan’s smile—surprisingly without snark—at their affection. Nola looks around, pulls her mask down and touches Ahsoka’s lips with her own. She apparently makes sure that Jillan can see her tongue move into Ahsoka’s mouth, as they are both treated to Jillan’s lekku stripes glowing bright red in the dim light.

“What’s up, No-no?” Ahsoka asks as they break away and restore their breathing to normal.

“Heard from Shyla and her new boy-band. The package has arrived. He’s ready to start distracting the Imp.”

Ahsoka looks down. “He’ll be okay. It was his idea, love,” Nola whispers.

“I know,” Ahsoka replies. “I just hope this whole thing doesn’t get complicated.

Nola glances at Jillan, who gets the message. “All we have to do is find the slaves, get Jillan out of here, and then get everybody else out. Oh, and now figure out the whole naf thing, and maybe even who the hell put something in your’s and Bryne’s noggins.”

“Easy-peasy,” Ahsoka says. “Lot of moving parts. Even without you possibly boinking a syndicate lackey. Just for an added bonus.”

“You’re just jealous. Everybody’s getting laid but you,” Nola retorts.

Ahsoka sees her look at her, her eyes growing soft. She reaches over and touches Ahsoka’s wing marking. “He’ll be alright, love,” she says. “He’s come out of deeper shit.”

 _Yeah, but never when he feels his entire definition of who he is and what his place in the universe happens to be in question,_ Ahsoka thinks, but doesn’t say.

* * *

Bryne continues to shift dirt around, attempting to make up for the fact that he might be the galaxy’s shittiest gardener. He can see the Zygerrian overseer looking in his direction balefully. He brings his eyes down, trying not to make eye contact.

Being the humble slave that he is—even though he is one that has ‘noble blood.’

He can detect Ahsoka’s presence in his mind; she isn’t far away. Maybe even in the same building. He pushes her from his mind, allowing only the presence, not her thoughts. As he pushes, he feels intense disappointment—of pain and separation. The disappointment fades. Replaced by something even more powerful.

Understanding. Understanding of what he has to do. Understanding accompanied by something else. Something that supposedly Jedi don’t possess.

Love.

He feels his mouth quirk a brief smile as he attempts to coax a small plant to remain its natural color. Those thoughts of everyone who is a so-called ‘expert’ on Jedi are a polite fiction. Everything that a Jedi does is about compassion.

True love. It is only when that compassionate love turns into something possessive, that a Jedi becomes in danger and threatened by the darkness.

He wonders if he can leave her if he needs to. Especially with the continuing feeling that someone is in his mind. Someone who he has never actually met.

Only Ahsoka has. Neither of them can figure out if Soma Jess has actually intruded into their minds, or has just managed to fool them.

He isn’t truly ready to confirm that he, or worse yet, she, might be under her control.

Bryne lifts his head as he hears voices approaching. He quickly flips his eyes to his work, but tunes into the words. He could just make out the acting Imperial governor of the sector and a young woman that Nola had identified in her comm as a Corellian criminal.

A part of him is able to get a second look at her. Just to check for weapons.

He hears the bright voice in his mind behind the blue-orange light. _Right, Bait. Looks like you might get lucky. You or Nola._

 _Okay, Runt. Time for the charm_. He does feels his trousers tighten as an older Zeltron woman looks at him from where she’d been walking with the pair.

He starts to rise, is nearly to his feet, when fire lances across his back. He manages to keep from gasping, as he whirls on the Zygerrian. He starts to advance when the whip lashes him, this time across his front. Bryne slips to his knees, but then starts to rise.

“Filthy scug!” the overseer screams. He pulls out a blaster instead. He falls to the ground, his own smoking hole in the chest, his eyes fixed.

A young man with purple skin, walking next to the Zeltron woman, holsters a hidden blaster, even before the muzzle stops emitting smoke.

The moff stares at her, then nods as the young woman places her hand on him. In his examination for weapons, he sees that the skin that he can see in the wrap over her bathing suit is tanned. He sees the Zeltron glance quickly at the young woman, then at Bryne.

 _Interesting_ , he thinks.

“Please, Jadhic,” Q’ira— _that’s her name_ —says, evoking surprise from the Imp at the use of his first name. “Please don’t hurt him.” She gives him a coquettish smile. “He could be entertaining.”

“I can attest to that, your Excellency,” the Zeltron says, “as can my son.” The purple skinned young man blows him a kiss, when the Imp isn’t looking.

Jadhic waves away the troopers who are pointing weapons at the Zeltron’s son and at Bryne. Another Zygerrian moves towards him with a vibroknife. The senior trooper stops him by placing the muzzle of his blaster against the space between his eyes.

“So, I assume that this is my gift, Madame Zabrin?” Sander-Calanthe asks. He walks over and places his hand on Bryne’s cheek. “What is your name?”

“Go to hell,” Bryne replies, pushing it just a bit further.

“Interesting. Didn’t know that was a Corellian name.” He looks down at the dirt in the garden, at the demolished plants and unfathomable designs in what had been a contemplative garden spot. “Well, I guess I better bring you to your true calling. Before you demolish any more expensive succulents.”

As he starts to follow the pair, he can feel a very noticeable eyeroll.

Noticeable even in his mind. “Dani would be proud of you, Bait,” Ahsoka says, “that you’ve been taking her lessons to heart.”

 _I ain’t the only one, Runt_ , he projects. _Should I remind you about Greedo?_

He might just be getting the last word. He looks down at the young Corellian woman’s face. He can see a look of resignation on her face.

 _Don’t worry, darlin’,_ he thinks. I think you’ll be fine. Got a few tricks up my sleeve.

He feels a warm smile in his mind at his thoughts. A smile that brings even more warmth to his heart, not just other places.

 _I love you, Jame_ , he hears.


	22. Finding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The poodoo flows, from the Force and otherwise.

Q’ira slowly opens her eyes. As she cracks them, the light of morning floods into her consciousness. The sound of what appears to be a landspeeder engine cuts into her senses from her left. She turns her head in that direction and allows more light in. 

Light and the sight of the Imperial governor of this world and this sector lying naked in the large bed, snoring away, his hands tied to the bedposts with what appears to be silk cloth. As she focuses on him, images of the night before crowd into her brain. Images of tastes, touches, and explosions. Her hand moves over to the right, touching the bed where another had last been seen in her mind. Seen and felt, in the fuzzy sensations that she tries to make sense of. She doesn’t turn in that direction; her mind tries to grapple with what she had experienced. 

Q’ira reaches down to herself; she feels no evidence that her body had been doing some of the things that she has vague images of. She crinkles her brow; she realizes that the evidence present doesn’t exactly give her more answers. Especially as there’s no physical evidence of anyone else doing them with her. She decides not to examine Jadhic any closer.

She finally looks to her right as she hears a noise. The slave, _Bryne_ , eases what looks like a small collection device of some sort closed. He looks at it for a moment, his features thoughtful. He pockets the device then looks up and gives her a warm smile. 

In spite of her self-examination earlier, she just now realizes that she is fully covered in the sheet, as well as still completely dressed in her bathing suit, unlike Jadhic. Bryne is fully dressed, his slave’s collar still locked on his neck. He sits easily, in an way that she would’ve never thought possible of a slave. His left leg is crossed at a right angle on his right knee, his right hand rests lightly on the ankle. His face, which in spite of her inexperience truly judging the looks of adult males, except for Han and Dryden—both completely different—is pleasing, with regular, open features. The crooked grin, which she’d noticed and thought odd in a slave, matches with his eyes to bring so many things to his face. Warmth, tempered with a great deal of mischief and a tiny bit of understanding. 

There are other things there, as well. Things that she’s seen when she looks in a mirror. 

Hints of pain, of loss, and of grief. 

She raises her eyebrow, then looks away, wiping her eyes as if they’re not quite awake. His face seems to phase in and out in her mind. She shakes her head and then locks her vision on his. His lips are now only slightly quirked upwards on the left; the expression is unreadable. 

As if he is used to that particular reaction.

“What are you doing, tool?” she asks, managing to put a bit of imperiousness in her voice. She winces at the word, one that she’d heard a master use to another slave. 

He grins again, this time with that lazy crookedness that makes something flip, something located down around her middle. “Just waking up, darlin’,” he says. She closes her eyes at that voice, one she’d heard many times, in many variations on the streets of Corellia, from those who’d originated outside of the cosmopolitan megalopolis that was Coronet.

One that she remembers of her own family members, growing up in the Silo. One that she worked hard to never hear in her own voice, choosing to imitate the Core sounds of the wealthier parts of the city. She ignores thoughts of her upbringing, shoving the loss and grief into another small compartment.

“What were you collecting? From him, I hope” she asks, her eyes focused on his. At first, she wonders if he’ll try to lie his way out of the answer. 

He grins. “You’d be surprised what you can get with a little genetic material.” His face grows harder. “What you can learn. What doors you can open.”

“Why are you already up and dressed?”

The grin returns. “My _Mother_ told me to always wake up first,” he replies. The odd emphasis on that title gives her pause. She thinks of one other, who has no genetic relationship to her, who had given her permission to use that word with her. A woman with a crimson face and a slightly different-hued offspring. She remembers the pointed look that Irnalyn had given her and then Bryne. A look that implied that he was hers. 

She realizes that Bryne is looking at her with a thoughtful expression. “What?” 

“You need to be careful, Q’ira,” he says quietly. “This house of cards might be about to tumble down. I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in it.” He smiles slightly, then allows the expression to turn devilish. “Another of my acquaintances wouldn’t either. She’s already invested enough in feeding you.”

She keeps her expression even at the mention of yet another Corellian connection. One whose voice speaks of the Mid Rim, rather than her world. She idly wonders if that was Nola’s true voice.

Q’ira sees that he is rubbing his forehead, as if massaging the pain away. His eyes, now looking down, give her the impression of immense fatigue. She watches as he rises, his expression blank, with no hint of the glimpse she’d gotten. Without even a second glance, he reaches up, and holding it in an odd way, opens his collar and removes it without any effort. He places it in the pocket of his trousers. She starts as she sees he isn’t clad in his work clothes any longer, but in gray suit trousers and a white dress shirt. 

“You might want to be especially careful of Zara. I’m not sure of what her game is; she might also be a bit put out by the fact that you’re in Jadhic’s bed.”

“Jealousy?” she asks. “Didn’t get that vibe from her.”

Bryne shakes his head. “Nope. Ownership. Ownership and the inability to know what deals you were making with him, without her being present.”

Q’ira rises from the bed, making sure that she that her suit is actually in place. “She’s welcome to join us. Apparently I can share,” she says. 

She reaches up and kisses him, her lips and tongue lingering. “You might want to be careful as well, Bryne. I wouldn’t want your pretty face to get mussed because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong.”

He says nothing as he turns away. She makes no move to stop him. As the door closes, she starts gathering her own clothes, other than the suit. She didn’t want to have to explain to Jadhic where his now-unwrapped gift had gone. 

As she steps outside of the room, she realizes that the fleet trooper there is asleep, standing up. She stares at him, suddenly, for a reason she can’t fathom, remembers one clear image of Bryne in the night. Standing above the bed, his left hand raised. 

Two fingers on that hand upright as well. 

Positioned as if waved from right to left in a gentle motion. 

Q’ira remembered nothing clearly after that movement.

* * *

Bryne stares at the lead trooper whose squad has stopped him. He feels his anger build as his face is reflected in the sergeant’s polarized lenses. He feels the other dozen troopers tense, their grips tighten on their blasters and a couple of the muzzles come up to point at his chest. He calms himself, then holds up his left hand. 

He lifts his thumb and forefinger, being careful to not make any sudden moves and reaches into the pocket opposite his blaster. He brings the small object out and holds it up. “Imperial magistrate,” he says. He points with the index finger holding it at one section of the scandocs, with code cylinder attached. “Aurek-00 level, with ISB endorsement, as you can see.”

The expressionless mask continues to stare at him. Bryne chuffs impatiently. He starts to replace the creds in his pocket when the stormie reaches up and takes the docs from him, bringing them closer. 

“Why are you on the streets?” the sergeant intones. 

“Do you know what Aurek-00 means?” he asks. 

“No, actually.”

“Then you’re either ignorant, or worse yet, stupid. It means that when I’m investigating something, I can move wherever I need to. Or even want to.” A part of him is ready to throw more fuel on the fire. He feels a calming word in his mind, in a beloved voice. One that seems to cut through the static that’s been prevalent in his head in the last couple of days especially.

_Bait._

Another trooper speaks up, one with a long rifle. “We have our orders. The curfew is still in effect for another quarter-hour.”

“Let me pass, buckethead,” Bryne says. He wonders if anyone else would be up and wake to see the dozen objects fly from the vambrace he’d picked up from a small locker, along with the blaster, the sunshades, and the black leather coat that covers the weapon. 

He can see the dozen or so troopers in the right eye of the shades, all of them green at the moment, with crosshairs superimposed on them. Waiting for him to touch a button on his other wrist that would turn them all red. He shakes his head as the taste of ashes recedes. 

His Force sense doesn’t return. Only the presence in his mind, watching with what feels like worry. He breathes out.

“Sergeant. I need you to return to your patrol. If you obstruct my investigation. I’ll have no choice to make sure that you’re all given at least a demerit. One for hindering and obstructing me.”

“That’s the same thing,” one trooper says, a woman’s voice coming through the modulator.

He smiles tightly. “I’m sure the blaster bolts being sent into your chests against a wall, by your platoon mates will differentiate.”

The sergeant shakes his head. “You’d need two for that. A real ISB agent would know that for a termination sentence.”

“Yes, but several of you already have demerits. I can tell that some of your fellows don’t know that. I have access to your personnel files.” He taps the glasses. “How will the others in your squad feel when they’ve suddenly acquired two where there was one?” He smiles as the other troopers begin murmuring, looking at one another. 

“I think we’re done here,” a grenadier says. The sergeant turns and starts to say something, but the other troopers lower their weapons.

As the squad moves away, Bryne gives a sigh of relief. _Too bad I didn’t have some goddamned mystical power that works on the weak-minded, that could’ve done that with a wave of my hand_. He brings his hand to his forehead. _Oh, wait. I do. It just doesn’t work for shit._

He hears the voice in his head, most probably the voice of his conscience, a conscience that usually either sounds like one of three people in his life. This time it sounds in stereo. _Bryne, that’s what we’ve been telling you. Your heart is not just the Force. It’s your mind and your body. You can still fight._

The Ti and Ahsoka show fades for a second. He grins as he hears the third member weigh in. 

_Dumbass._

He feels the other two smile as an impression of dark eyes, bronze skin, and a decidedly broken nose cuts into the conversation. His own smile fades as he thinks about the last night. A night in which he had sat awake, watching as Jadhic and Q’ira had slept, their minds occasionally flashing with the residual of the acts that all three of them were performing. 

In their minds. 

Bryne lifts his hand and wipes his eyes, as if he can wipe the memory of how he’d manipulated them. He can feel the Ahsoka, Ti, and J’ohlana Wren presences in his conscience. All silent, but projecting the two things that tell him that he hasn’t fallen, in spite of what he’d done in the war and since. 

Compassion. Understanding. Love.

Suddenly, the static fades in his mind. The ash-taste returns in his mouth as he hears footsteps. A buzzing at the base of his skull tells him to hide. 

He makes his way to the early-morning shadows of an alley, just as two figures round the corner of a building. 

His eyes fall on the young Zygerrian woman walking confidently in the street, with only one guard. His memory brings up her name. Zara Molec. Daughter of the Regent of Zygerria, Atai Molec. The same Regent, who as Prime Minister, had assisted in the murder of his Queen, and had coveted a young Togruta, hanging in a cage above the city. He remembers the matter-of-fact voice of that Togruta, recounting her adventures in the war to him. 

He stops as his eyes fall on the woman walking with Molec. His breath stops as he gets a close look at her face. A face from his own memory, both recent and distant. He mind travels back to a small meditation chamber—over a dozen years ago. This woman, staring down at him, as her naked body melded with his, riding him with an almost palpable desperation. He remembers trying to gently bring her head down to kiss him, his hands in her dark hair. Her temple horn hard against his hand as she fought him, pounding his chest as she released. 

Only then had she calmed, lying her bronze features against his chest, as they both caught their breaths. He can hear a whisper in her Force sense as she falls asleep. 

_Ti should’ve been my master. You’re not worthy._

She’d never voiced that to him in speech, even during the couple of other times they’d found themselves grappling in the nearest hidden space in the Temple, two padawans exercising the tacit approval for such experimentation. 

He can feel the eyerolls in his mind from his tripartite conscience. He remembers his master’s voice asking him in the past. _Is there any padawan that you didn’t ‘experiment’ with?_

His mind sees her name. Maris Brood. Padawan of Lorhena Marek. 

The eventual living embodiment of the Asundrance. A Force power that he and Ahsoka, as well as their other loves had defeated on Felucia, a year or so ago. A defeat that had also entailed lightsaber battles, though concealed with this former padawan, and now dark side user.

He falls to the ground hard. His breath coming fast. The pain in his head increases, as he realizes that Maris might not be the only font of darkness he feels. He manages to reach in his pocket with shaking hands, bringing out a small object. 

A small gray and black disk of stone and metal. The remnant of the altar that had focused the Asundrance, the only remnant that had survived the burst of Force energy. 

Or so he’d thought. He doesn’t even think of how Soma Jess—the progenitor of that pain in his head, through some unknown method—had come into contact with the Asundrance, as he’d felt before. 

He only thinks of Ahsoka. 

Bryne Covenant rises, then turns and sprints towards the Imperial Residence that he’d just left.


	23. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one was harmed in the making of these reunions. Mostly.

Sorentin Rhayme watches as his wife moves through the streets, seemingly unconcerned about two very large beings following her at a distance, along with a well-armed, much smaller Twi’lek woman. At least two of the beings, she knows almost intimately. He turns to Face, who is watching the small screen as well. A very tiny probe droid, the companion to the one that’s now tracking his wife’s movements floats over her shoulder. He grins as the droid extends a small probe and runs it over her cheek, carefully avoiding the lekku. Face absently swats at the tickler; Sorentin and Gral grin at one another.

“She’s getting close to a big warehouse,” Face observes. Both she and her oversized spouse turn and look at him expectantly. He closes his eyes.

“You know, you sure can pick’em,” Face says acerbically.

“Not every choice can be as charming as you, my dear,” he replies without opening his eyes.

“Yeah, but I think you only got one good one out of the three or four you tried,” Gral rumbles.

“I agree. Lassa’s mother was the best,” Face says.

Sorentin chuffs impatiently and opens his eyes. “If we’re through rating my spousal choices, I think we need to go talk to her. That warehouse has big roof doors. I’m wondering if that could be where some naf is? That’s the second part of our mission from the Fulcrum twit.”

“Wow, you actually paid attention.” Gral snarks. “I’m impressed.

Sorentin doesn’t reply; he turns and walks out of the alley. It only takes a few minutes to find the droid flashing its signal lamp, before settling on Face’s shoulder.

Tessika steps out into the darkness. “I thought that might be your twit’s droid, Gral,” she says.

Sorentin stares at her. She returns his gaze. “You know, it’s almost going to be fun watching Meglann kick your ass,” Face says.

“Oh, so that’s her name. Got a few hurts already.”

“So what are you doing here at a naf warehouse?” Sorentin asks, his voice calm—taking a shot in the dark.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought I’d get a little extra something for my own retirement. You got a ship?”

Gral shakes his head. “Nope. You’re not. That crap has another use. For something better than a grifter’s payout.”

“You’re one to talk, Kruvure. Hanging out with him.” She jerks her thumb at Sorentin. “I never could have a marriage. You were always there. I don’t even know why you didn’t marry him.” She looks at Face for sympathy. She finds none.

“Some of us can make it work, for what we want. If we’re committed,” Face replies. “Any last words about my marriage?”

Tessika turns to her husband. “I’m just here helping my mother.” She holds up a small device. “This can get into the moff’s safe, if I can get his DNA. There’s at least hundred mil in there.”

Face snatches it, and gives it to her droid, who lifts off. Tessika starts to draw a blaster, but Sorentin’s hand grasps her wrist in an iron grip, as Gral relieves her of the weapon.

“Time to start paying the piper, love,” Sorentin says. “The naf is for something else. Might be a way to balance the scales for things we’ve done.” He stops as a roaring noise can be heard approaching. All four of them look up as three medium transports, their bulbous hulls just visible with their running lights, arc into the air over the city. “There’s our ships.”

“How are you going to start them?”

“Don’t worry. Our crack agent’ll get them.” He looks at Face. She nods and the droid flits off into the night. He turns to Tessika. “We might have a line on the DNA.” He reaches down and kisses her. “I think it’s time for you to come home, sweetie.”

As he and Tessika kiss, he can feel Gral and Face staring at them.

* * *

The tall woman moves confidently, but slowly through the garden. Ahsoka watches, a Smirk growing on her face. Without a word, she grabs the arm of the lurker and pulls her into the dark grotto.

Nola curses, then starts to struggle, lashing out with her free hand. Ahsoka leans back, allowing the fist to move in front of her face. She pulls her other arm around Nola and eases her into her arms. She feels Nola relax in her embrace; Nola reaches up and pulls the mask from her face, after a quick look around. Their lips touch, just as they had a day or so ago.

A lifetime ago, or so it feels. Ahsoka moves her hand to Nola’s cheek, then through the dark waves of her hair.

“Hey, Tano,” Nola whispers. “You okay?”

Ahsoka can see the concern in her dark eyes, is warmed by this. “Yeah, No-no,” she says. “Doing okay. Just trying to figure this whole thing out.”

“Yeah. I know. No other word on the other slaves. We’ve got a couple of dozen identified, but haven’t gotten to them.”

Ahsoka smiles. “Yeah. I know. Got some folks working on that. Inside and out.”

“I know what’s on your mind,” comes a deeper voice from the entranceway to the grotto. Ahsoka and Nola whirl. She’s sure that Nola’s broad smile is mirrored on her own face as they both rush Bryne.

He grins, allowing himself to be pulled in; his green eyes are still warm in the dimming light of the evening.

Both women pull him tightly into their arms. He smirks as Ahsoka grabs his ass; the smirk is even wider as Ahsoka’s hand meets Nola’s.

“So, how’s the gardening going, Bait? You passing in all areas?” Ahsoka asks, the snark hiding her concern at the tiredness on his face.

Not apparently tired enough to refrain from giving her a sour look. She moves her lips to his, for once closing her eyes as their tongues touch. As soon as she breaks away, Nola takes her place, all three of them hold each other tightly.

“I think that whatever this is, we’ve got enough destabilizing influences going around. None of the principals seem to be actually working together. We might be able to spread the gaps even further. Especially if we can add Atai Molec to the mix,” Ahsoka says.

“I think that Shyla and her new friends are working on that. Irnalyn Zabrin can leverage some stuff on him, even though she’s an ex-slave of his.”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka replies. “If we find a good use for the naf, something that’s not as ruinous as using it to enhance spice.”

Bryne nods. He kisses Nola again and pulls Ahsoka closer. “I think Irnalyn might want in on that. Something they can use to help finance freeing their people on Nar Kanji.”

“We just have to get Crimson Dawn off of that kick, without getting them on the slavery thing,” Nola observes.

Bryne grins at her. “How’s that going, No-no?”

“Slow. We either have to figure out that naf doesn’t help the spice or find something else for them to make money off of.” She reaches down and gropes him. “But I’m working it.”

Her laughter erupts as both of them find different spots on her skin to torture. When it subsides, Nola grows serious. “I think Q’ira, of Crimson Dawn, might have had some contact with Irnalyn.”

“It’s quite possible,” Bryne replies. “From what Shyla told me, she, ah, provides certain _training_ services to the syndicates.”

They fall silent at that. “I’ve got some idiots that might help us look to see if there’s any naf in bulk here on Zygerria,” Ahsoka says. “You think Sina and Dek will be able to isolate a use for it? For Ala? For anything else?”

“If it’s there, they’ll find it. The other thing is that there seems to be differentiation between naf from different worlds. We’ve got to confirm that it’ll work as well as other worlds.”

“Anybody ever used Zygerrian naf with Kessel spice?”

No one answers. “Guess our science guys will be looking into that, as well,” Bryne says.

“About Jillan, Ahsoka,” Nola says. “I can have some of our politicals look into the possibility of a Shilian connection with the Moff’s little caper. Either Draq’, or maybe a Senator. Kanyly na Torstan’ii might be interested, if she’s on Coruscant.”

Ahsoka nods. “Nola, could you go and give Sorentin, Face, and Gral, their orders? They’ll need to keep their eyes open for the two dozen, as well as the ones that came with Bryne.”

Nola nods, then kisses them both, quickly. Ahsoka lays her head on his chest, when they’re alone. “You okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

He remains quiet. She pushes away gently and looks at him. He looks away, unable to meet her gaze.

She sighs, but allows him the silence. She does move his eyes back to her with two fingers on his jaw. “What about Soma Jess?” she asks.

He takes a moment, gathering himself. “I don’t know, Runt,” he whispers, placing his cheek on her left lek. “I’m sensing darkness here, but there something strange about it. I don’t know if it’s in my head or not. It’s almost familiar to me.” Bryne pulls out the disk. “There seems to be a touch of the Asundrance in it.”

She exhales sharply. “I hadn’t thought about it, but it is odd. It’s like she’s there, but I don’t know if she’s fully locked on my thoughts or what I’m doing.”

He nods. “Big headache, though.”

Bryne looks down at his feet. She quivers as he starts to rhythmically move his fingers over her bare belly, taking care to avoid the navel. She closes her eyes.

“I may need to get away from you when this is all over. To stay away.”

Her eyes remain closed, but she can feel the moisture starting to form behind the lids. “Why, Bryne? I’m the one that had contact with her. She had no idea of you. For some reason, she locked on you in my senses.”

“If you hadn’t been concerning yourself with my whining about my Force sense, she might not’ve.”

She breaks away, staring at him. Her anger calms. “You mean more to me than your Force sense. I need you. You’re the one thing that helps me make sense of this universe. I still have you. The Links as well, but you’re part of my life from before. Force sense or no.”

He smiles, then reaches down slowly and kisses her on her nose. They breathe for each other again. “Look how mature we are,” she feels against her lips. One hand move up from her belly and cups her breast, just holding her, his thumb bringing her arousal up.

“Maybe not so much,” she breathes, her voice catching at the end.

“One other thing. There’s a dark sider on this world. Not Jess. Maris Brood. The one we ran into on Felucia.”

“Your meditation-chamber conquest?” she asks acerbically, after a moment.

“That’s one word for it,” he replies dryly. “Although I would argue that she conquered me. I was bleeding afterwards.”

She shakes her head and places it against his.

“Soooo innocent,” she says, her smile forming against his lips.

* * *

The pack lies next to the dead stormtrooper. Maris Brood stares down at the corpse, the helmet twisted almost a full 180 degrees. She lifts the pack, then opens it, her hands searching out the articles inside. She feels no regret at the stormtrooper’s death; he’d not even known that he was bringing these items for her.

He’d had only an inkling, provided by the Force. She pulls out one of her side-handled lightsabers. She makes sure that she detects no one else, then activates the crimson beam. She feels a warmth, as she swings the lightsaber to and fro, before moving into a couple of katas. The warmth doesn’t just come from the blade itself. She’d first noticed it when she’d demonstrated those same katas, right after constructing this same lightsaber, albeit with a different crystal, as a padawan.

She deactivates the blade, then closes her eyes, reaching out with the Force. Earlier, as she was completing her assignment to protect Sander-Calanthe’s business partner, the Zygerrian woman, she detected just a tiny hint of a Force sense. A hint—of what felt like two separate ones, maybe even three or four—had confused her. Then, as now, she tries to separate the different sensations from each other analyzing them.

Maris fails as she did earlier in the day. She sheathes the blade, moving it to the harness on her back, then sliding the other one in. She reaches into the bag and pulls the last object out. She’s able to fit her artificial hand and forearm on her left; she flexes it as the nerves and electronic pathways automatically connect.

She jumps to the nearest roof, her Force sense active. She focuses on the remnants of the earlier contacts. The contacts are a mixed bag. A hint of her master, Lorhena Marek, who Maris knows is dead, the Quinlan Vos avatar from Felucia, one from her past, that is confirmed dead on Kashyyyk, and one other.

One that is almost like a wisp of smoke. Another one very similar, but equally elusive to another on Felucia.

Not the one she’d spent months looking for, however. The apostate Inquisitor, Galen Marek.

Her brain is suddenly assaulted by a more powerful, more urgent warning. She whirls, closing her eyes to focus on it, while simultaneously closing her own shields. As she locks on the source, one much more powerful than the other hints, she leaps back to the ground.

Just in time to see a hooded figure move into another alley, one that moves further away from the main thoroughfare.

She retreats into the shadows as the figure turns back, keeping its face hidden from view under the hooded. Her ears detect something that sounds like a slight clanking noise as the figure walks with a strange gait.

She catches just a glimpse of the face—mainly its eyes. Eyes that burn yellow-red. Much like her own in the rare occasions that she is able to glance at her reflection.

Maris exhales as she sees a bit more of the face.

Of what surrounds the burning eyes.

Crimson and black skin.

She remembers what Palpatine had said to her when he assigned her.

Something about a past mistake.


	24. Secret Squirrels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exercise, lunch, and a show.

Jillan Bykos looks down at the dark city streets, from the vantage point of another high building, other than the one she’d spent the last ten-day living in. She was amazed at how, with just a push, skills that she’d never known had opened up in a part of her mind that she’d never used. She closes her eyes, breathing in the slightly spicy night air, one manifestation of those skills searching out in the night. She focuses on one heartbeat and respiration in particular. Her eyes stare at the picture in her mind, painted on the inside of her eyelids by the echolocation—at least that’s what Tano had called it. She guesses that it’s as good a name for it as any; she definitely feels her place in the world as it searches out. 

She smiles as her regular, if now more attuned hearing locks onto the heartbeat. As it does, another heartbeat trips into her senses. 

Her eyes snap open as she recognizes the Togruta speed. She thinks back, as Tano had taught her, remembering her words about ‘signatures’ as she’d called it. A way of differentiating between tracks with her senses. 

This heartbeat—its signature— is not one she recognizes, having listened, at Tano’s insistence to the her own, as well as Dala’s, the other city-dweller with the kind golden eyes, who’d always made sure that she was comfortable when going to sleep every night. 

_This is definitely not Tano’s,_ she thinks. She feels her lekku stripes warm with the memory of the last time she’d tracked her mentor’s heartbeat. 

When the tall human woman and the shorter human male with the gray fur—she can’t find the basic word right now—had been talking with Tano, when they thought she wasn’t watching. _Well, there had been words involved._

Tano’s heartbeat had been faster than even normal Togruta-speed, as she saw the trio’s lips and hand playing over places that weren’t usually touched in public. 

She shakes her head, then spies the owner of the first heartbeat. Jadhic Sander-Calanthe, the Imp that had brought both she and Tano here, walking with only one of the dark-armored troopers. She turns and begins to move across the roof. When she comes to the edge, she jumps over the narrow alleyway without hesitation. The awakened facility with her echolocation tells her that she can make the jump without falling. 

She sees the Imp enter a small, low building across the street. She sees him stop and look around. She falls to her knees as she sees him look up at the roof that she’s standing on. He goes into the building; the trooper turns and stands in front of the door.

Jillan calms her own rapid heartbeat and breathing. She chances a look over the parapet of the roof; her eyes widen as she sees several more—making an even dozen or so—of the troopers walk up to the one at the door. She settles back, turning and resting her back against the low wall, making sure that her montrals, even as low as they are, are concealed under the lip. As she does, she nearly screams as a hand falls on her shoulder. 

She stares at Tano’s bared face, the blue eyes narrowed in the low light of the surrounding buildings. “You know, I distinctly remember having this conversation several days ago. You don’t need to be tracking Imperials. That’s not what I’m training you for.”

Jillan says nothing, avoiding those sharp eyes. “I know,” she finally whispers. “But I think I’m ready.” She looks into Ahsoka’s eyes, now. “I’m detecting another Togruta. One that I’m not recognizing. Now that I’m close to the building with all of the bucketheads.” 

Tano grins at her use of the word, then grows serious. “Those are a special kind of bucketheads, Rat,” she observes absently. She sits back against the wall, her shoulder touching Jillan’s. She rests her head against the wall, closing her eyes. 

Jillan detects nothing of her echolocation; Togruta can only get a hint of it in others, just a tickle. Some of the stuff she’d read at Makyo’s insistence had said that some great huntresses could actually detect more, but this look of concentration seems to be something different. 

Less primal that her hunt-skills. She rests against Tano’s shoulder, moving her head to it. She can feel the strength that she’d seen in Tano’s frame. A strength that belies the remnants of the skinniness of her near-youth.

“Jillan, sweet, can I ask you a question?” Tano suddenly asks. 

Jillan is touched that she asked. She nods her head against Tano’s shoulder. 

“Have you ever felt like something’s going to happen, before it happens?”

Jillan’s eyes snap open. She breathes out, wondering where this question came from. She searches her memory. “No. Not really. It seems like since you’ve taught me about my hunt-skills; since you unlocked them, I think that I can maybe sense when someone’s about to move. But nothing like that. I’ve always had good reflexes, can usually catch things without thinking or maybe even looking. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” 

Even through her closed eyes, without any special skills, Jillan can detect something in her teacher’s voice. She starts to open her mouth, but closes it. She changes the subject and slowly opens her eyes, looking at Tano.

“Tano, what’s going to happen to me? When I get home?”

Tano is quiet again. She exhales sharply. “I don’t know. I’ve got some people looking in to any connection with Shili’s politics.” She opens her eyes and lifts her head up from where it rests. “It could lead back to your father and his desire to be the Shakraj.”

Jillan’s voice is even. “I know. I’d thought about that. He’s always been distant to me. Never really felt like he was actually my father.” She puts her head against Tano’s chest. “They’ve told me about something called a hunt-mother. A mentor from another clan, who helps raise a child in the Hunt. Would you be that for me?”

Tano’s eyes widen. She is unable to answer, her mouth open, but no words come out. She suddenly stops trying; she looks up and over the parapet. Jillan follows suit. A Zygerrian woman, one that Jillan had seen around the palace, or at least that’s who she thinks it is in the light of the streetlamps, moves towards the trooper, with only one escort, another woman of a different species. She’s stopped for a moment, her voice can be heard speaking to the trooper. After a moment she walks in. As she does, Jillan sends out her echolocation. 

She can detect more Togruta heartbeats. “Tano,” she breathes. 

“I know. They must’ve been in the basement.” She lifts a comm to her lips. “No-no, I think it’s time. Dala can move towards Zara’s enclave, to see if she can find something to sew a little chaos with her partners, as well as maybe find out where the other slaves are.”

“Okay,” comes the quiet reply. “I’ll work on that from another angle. I’ve got the device to open the moff’s safe. I’m going to make my moves to get someone to open it for us, to see if there’s anything in there that will help us.”

“Be careful. She may not react well to your dubious charms. You ain’t Dani,” Tano says, a smile in her voice.

A smile and a hint of concern. 

“Hey,” Nola says, “it’s me. Besides, my charms have worked on you.”

“Yeah, but all of you tell me that I’m easy.”

Jillan sees the soft smile in the dim light. It fades after a moment. 

“Come on,” Tano says, “time for us to see about getting you home.”

As she follows her teacher, Jillan, for some reason, thinks of something she’s never really had, since her mother had died.

Family.

* * *

Kanylynaan na Torstan’ii watches as her grandsons weave their way through the crowds of the Senate dining room. She tamps down her resonance, so that most of the section that she sits in won’t be overwhelmed by intense feelings of pride and warmth. She stands as the twins approach her table, along with one other. She nods and holds out her hand to the young woman, dressed in her world’s version of a business suit. 

She isn’t familiar with Togruta physiognomy and anatomy, except when she has looked up or down into a face or two that had been less calm than this self-possessed young woman. 

_Okay, much less calm_ , she thinks, remembering those sensations. She quickly suppresses them as she sees the young woman’s eyebrow markings rise and her grandsons’ faces build smirks on their near-identical faces. She shoots a look at them; they both manage to form their faces into what passes for professional respect for them.

“Hello, my dear,” she says, “my aides tell me that you seem to have your lekku to the ground, as another friend of mine might say, as far as the goings-on on Shili.”

The young woman smiles. “You might say that, Senator,” she says, returning Kanyly’s grip. Kanyly marvels at the cooler temperature, even cooler than a human’s to her Zeltron skin. She once again pushes memories away. “I’m Akaatha Raas. I work for one of the representatives of our assembly, as a researcher.” Her lips quirk slightly on her dark blue face. “Not for the Senator.”

Kanyly laughs. “I gather that I’m not the only one who has had difficulties dealing with the Senator of the Sovereign World of the Hunt,” she says. 

“No,” Akaatha says. Kanyly looks at her grandsons, who both seem to be paying close attention to every word from Akaatha. _Or at least to the lips speaking every word_ , she thinks. She manages to keep from rolling her eyes. _Which one? Mo, or Shimp?_ Their next moves confirm her suspicions. 

Moreteen and Shimp’etai ne Torstan’ii both reach out and pull a chair from under the table for her. Akaatha shares a look with their grandmother as she sits. Kanyly raises an eyebrow with over sixty years of recognizing signals of interest from various sentients as Akaatha’s dark blue, almost black eyes, meet hers. 

_Okay, my girl_ , she thinks. _Let’s see how you make out with my grandsons, first._

After a moment, Akaatha pours herself some water at Kanyly’s gesture. She lifts the datapad, scrolling through the food choices, quickly selecting some. Both Mo and Shimp make their own choices; Kanyly sticks with her water. 

After they’ve finished a companionable meal with innocuous small talk, one in which her grandsons keep their hormones in check—mostly, Akaatha nods her thanks. 

“It’s funny that you mention the Senator,” she observes, “given what you asked for.”

Kanyly nods. “I figured. There seemed to be more to it, just from what my lunkheads here were able to figure out.” She smiles affectionately at the lunkheads in question. 

Akaatha matches her smile, looking at both of them. “They seem like very skilled lunkheads, Excellency.”

 _Yep_ , Kanyly thinks. _Both_. She feels the spark of their resonances; she shoots them a look. They both look at the ceiling, with what could be called innocence in some. “Please, Akaatha dear, call me Kanyly when it’s just us. So it’s not just Jonan Bykos that might be involved?” she finishes. 

Akaatha starts; she’d been staring into Kanyly’s eyes. Kanyly sees Mo and Shimp narrow their eyes at their grandmother. She ignores them, her mind locked on the possible revelations. 

“I don’t know about overtly, Kanyly,” Akaatha replies. “You asked me about any inquiries about the Warden of the Hunt from senior politicals on my world. Both Jillan and Senator Orikshi have no ties to the Hunt—they’re so far removed from it.” She looks away. “So am I. My grandparents still hold to the old ways.”

“So what kind of information have they been seeking?” Mo asks. 

“The succession customs for the Warden of the Hunt.” She looks away for a moment. “Full disclosure, Kanyly. I had to notify my boss. He’s concerned about this and what it means. He’s from a hunt-family.”

Kanyly nod and touches her hand. “I understand Akaatha. The few times I’ve met Representative Loy, he’s impressed me with his care for his constituents.” _Especially since he doesn’t seem to be so pathologically concerned about keeping his office. Unlike some_ , she thinks, but doesn’t add. 

“Mainly about what happens when the position is vacant—or not.” She glances at Shimp, who seem rapt at her words. _Good. It means he’s interested in more than just a pair of impressive— lekku._

“Apparently, there can be only one Warden. If one is missing, but without confirmation or a declaration of death, there can’t be another one chosen. Only through death or abdication can another be selected.”

Kanyly looks at Mo, whose eyes show that his agile mind is digesting that. 

“So who does this benefit? Jonan Bykos or Sa Orikshi?”

Akaatha purses her lips. “I’m not sure. It could be, from what I’ve heard, that Jonan wouldn’t want anyone but his daughter to be the Warden. The selection process is very airtight. He couldn’t influence it. This is an opportunity for him, though, if she’s missing to act without the advice and oversight of the Warden. He’s not a great one for being told anything. I think your friend the Dragon might have some experience with that, from being on the CEC board at one time.”

“And Orikshi? She’s obstinate as hell, too,” Shimp observes, proving that he also has a brain cell or two not dedicated to undressing Akaatha Raas. Just not enough of one to govern his tongue, at least for work. She shoots a look at him.

“Yeah, She is, Shim,” Akaatha replies with a smile. _And another diminutive_ , Kanyly notes. She sees Mo mouthing a mockery of it, out of Akaatha’s eyesight.

“I think, though the idea that the Imperial has sought out a hunt-teacher of some sorts for Jillan, tells me that something else is at play. I’m not sure Jonan would approve of any further training that could make her more powerful.” Kanyly says.

“Yeah. I’m just afraid that if Orikshi can’t get what she wants, Jillan will meet with an accident. She’s known to be pretty ruthless, though nothing has stuck,” Mo says. 

Akaatha smiles at him, then at his grandmother, nodding. _Still in the game, my lad_ , Kanyly thinks with pride. Not just at the competition.

“I don’t think that will happen, sweetie,” Kanyly says. “There are some people with the Warden, who I trust above many others. They should have her home, soon.”

She rises and pulls Akaatha into her arms, surprising the young woman—one who appears to be a couple of years older than her grandsons. “Thank you Akaatha. You’ve been very helpful. Now go and have some fun with my grandsons. They’re both admirable young men, in spite of the lunkheadedness from their grandfather’s side of the family.”

Akaatha folds into the hug, giggling, but squeaks as Kanyly gives her a traditional greeting of her people, one centered just below her spine, on opposite sides, with both hands squeezing.

“I taught them everything they know, dear,” she whispers into the nearest lekku. She smiles devilishly as she feels the lekku twitch against her lips.

As the three of them walk away, hand-in-hand. Kanyly’s eyes grow serious. She walks out of the dining room after paying and raises her comm to her lips. 

“Daaineran. I’ve got news. Also, please tell me that Sina is alright. Bo and I miss our heart-bond terribly.”

* * *

Daina Calanthe, the true Moff of Zygerria and its surrounding sector, reaches up and removes her helmet. She hands it to yet another aide, a tall young woman who appears much more intelligent than most—especially the one that had come with her. A Corellian, whose true allegiance had been with her husband. She looks at her senior officers, who all kneel or sit around her, as she’d seen that many of them looked as if they were ready to fall down, while standing. 

She grins at the acting ground commander, Crix Madine. He and his Mudjumpers had the most experience here on Mimban. The 1/327th Mechanized Infantry were a component of the descendant unit from the original clonetrooper battalion who’d arrived in the Clone Wars, the 224th Division. As he finishes his report, she rises; they are up before she reaches her full height. She nods at them, then turns back to her tent, gesturing for Madine to follow.

As soon as they are in their tent, her aide sends the orderly way. Daina sits on the bed. She nods her thanks as Edan Kozume starts to unbuckle her armor and pull it away from her sodden uniform. She breathes out as the orderly exits. “I’m not sure why we’re here, Crix,” she says. 

She sees a smirk firm under his muddy blond beard. “That could be considered seditious talk, Daina,” he says. In the few weeks she’d been here, both of them had gained mutual respect for each other, after seeing each other work. She rises and pulls her uniform tunic off, then starts pulling her other clothing off. His expression doesn’t change; they’d also gotten a couple of other things out of the way in their short time together.

Fighting together in a shithole such as Mimban, breaks down certain standards. His eyes roam over her body; she stops moving and opens her arms slightly. He smiles and shakes his head. “Still got a lot to do before I turn in. Make sure you get some rest.” He looks at Kozume. “See that she does.”

Kozume nods. As Madine leaves. Kozume looks at her, then starts to take her own tunic off. She moves out of her view, revealing a steaming camp tub. Kozume stops at her shirt and trousers, kicking off her boots. She picks up a cloth. 

“You don’t have to bathe me, Edan. You’re an officer,” Daina says. 

Edan smiles. “I know. But I give you some leave to talk, with my clearance.” 

A comm beeps. Edan picks it up and activates it. 

Irnalyn Zabrin stares at Daina. Daina feels her anger rise as she looks at her soon-to-be-extinct aide. Irnalyn shakes her head. “No, darling. Don’t even think that. Remember that you work for me as much as she does.”

Daina closes her eyes, remembering the first time she’d met this woman. She remembers the woman’s eyes, kind, but firm, as she revealed her knowledge of certain transactions. Knowledge that could’ve resulted in a very slow death for her, at the end of an Imperial cable, since those transactions had resulted in missing Imperial ships.

“I think it’s time that you enact your plan to be shot of your husband. He’s going against everything I’ve had you build on Zygerria.”

Her own comm signals, just as the Zeltron crime mistress’s fades. 

Moff Tarkin stands next to the hulking figure of Lord Vader.

“It’s time, Governor,” she says. “I have proof that my husband is acting in contravention of Imperial order.”

Tarkin stares at her. “Very well. There is an operative already there, one that the Emperor and Lord Vader have sent on another matter. She will follow your orders, if need be.”

She stares at Edan Kozume as the comms are put down. Edan walks over to her and bows her head. “I serve many masters, your Excellency. But unlike those others, Irnalyn doesn’t threaten to kill me at the drop of a hat. I’ll have earned my death if she gets to that point. How about you?”

Daina stares at her. Slowly she moves past the young woman and steps into the tub. She gestures to Edan.


	25. Spy vs. Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught. And it hurts.

Dala Ti closes the small comm that Nola had given her. She remembers Nola’s words. _Be careful, Dala. If you can attach Phygus’s thingy to Zara’s datapad, then do it. Don’t get caught. We need you more than we need any benefit that we might gain._

 _No,_ she thinks, _we don’t. If I can find one slave, especially my people and free them, then I’m unimportant._

Dala thinks of the young woman from Shili—a place that she’d never been before. She thinks of their slightly similar upbringing. Similar in that neither of them had ever thought of the hunt-training that was their legacy. She wonders if it would be too late for her to be trained in using at least some of those gifts.

She shakes her head, then looks up at the second floor of the small building that she stands in front of. She can only hope she’ll get enough warning that Zara Molec was on her way back to her house. She pulls on the small trellis, testing it.

In less than a moment, she is on the balcony. A touch of the locking mechanism with the small device that Nola had given her, supposedly from this high-speed slicer of theirs and the door opens.

She immediately begins to look around for her objective. It only takes her a few moments. She opens her comm.

A small human stares back at her from the two-dee. He gives her a warm smile, his eyebrow raised. “Hello. You must be Dala,” he says. “It’s good to see that we’re maintaining our standards of beauty in our operatives.” She starts to blush, then remembers Nola’s warning.

“I’m supposed to cut you down to size, but looks like you’re already there,” she says. She tries not to put a question mark on the end. She winces at the cutting words.

His grin widens. “I see you’ve been trained well, sweetie,” he says, his accent that of someone from Coruscant—the downcity as she’d heard it described. “I also see that you’re an inherently nice person, so I’ll give you a pass and try not to look down your top if you bend over.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not that afraid of showing them to you, Touchstone,” she says. “Let’s go. May not have time.”

“Look for the input slot on the datapad,” he says, suddenly all business. “Make sure you put the end with the ‘plus’ sign on it in, then twist.”

She complies. The datapad starts whirring, but doesn’t turn on.

“Now get out of there. It’ll disintegrate once the spike is in.” His eyes widen as he looks behind her.

Zara Ti stands looking at her. “Ahh, so I have a disobedient scug.”

Dala breathes out. “I’m not a slave. I’m free.”

Zara smiles. “No. You were. Now you’re a slave under our laws.” Her expression hardens. “One that’s about to get the only true freedom for a slave on our world.”

Dala screams as the electrowhip lashes her in the face, then wraps around her upper arm, its energy searing all of her nerve endings.

As she collapses, she thinks of the irony. All of her weeks as a slave on Kadavo, plus the time portraying one, she’d never had to be disciplined before.

The darkness falls.

* * *

Nola Vorserrie closes her comm as she stands across another small house, one that had been lent to Crimson Dawn’s representative. She breathes out as she thinks about Phygus’s description of what had happened at Zara’s residence. She wonders if she should abort her own mission and go attempt to get Dala out of the mess that they’d gotten her into. She closes her eyes, then comes to a decision. _No. That’s somebody else’s job. Mine is to see if I can get Q’ira to do some of our dirty work for us._

She types out a quick text, then sends it out in at least three directions. She gets the chime of acknowledgement from each, then receives one of her own.

One from her foster-sister, relayed from the Senator of Zeltros, addressed to both she and Ahsoka.

_The Dragon is on his way to Shili. May be solving our issue with the Warden’s dad, as well as another that may be involved. Will still need to secure her release, but then we’ll need to figure out where she goes._

Nola grins as a small icon blows them a crimson kiss at the end of the message. She secures her comm, then starts to move across the street. She brings her body up against the wall, then takes several deep breaths. Even though she is trained for this, her heart still races as she gets ready for her part.

To convince a criminal that they can both get what they need. She makes sure that the small device that Sorentin had relieved from his thief of a wife is warm against her skin, hanging between her breasts. The one piece that Q’ira might stand a chance of getting to the Moff’s quarters, to see if any information on the other slaves might be in the safe that Tessika had been so hell bent to get into. She wonders if she can convince Q’ira to help them.

Or help herself, if Nola can let her, without controlling the situation.

She looks down at herself with a rueful grin, rolling her eyes. The dark pullover and trousers, the watchcap, all smack of skullduggery. Something that she doesn’t usually engage in without a business suit and a glass of whisky.

Her Handmaiden blaster might sometimes be involved as well.

She takes a deep breath and places her hands on the iron grate attached to the house. She makes sure that her fists are clinched around the metal—well, at least as much of her fist as she can on her left hand. That damned little finger still sticks out at an angle. She ignores the twinge from the still healing blaster wound in the same shoulder.

On the balcony, she slows her breathing, then moves into the chamber.

Q’ira stands there, a small hideout blaster pointed at Nola. Nola wonders if she can draw and kill the woman before the blaster drills her. Q’ira’s expression is unreadable for several beats of Nola’s heart. A slight quirk of the right side of her full lips, and Q’ira lifts the muzzle of the blaster, before placing it on the night table.

Nola smiles as her eyes move over the exposed skin of her arms, shoulders, and a good deal of her chest under the silk nightgown. Nola starts as Q’ira’s blue eyes play over her own, more covered body. She walks over to the server table and lifts a decanter and allows a bit of amber liquid to cover the bottom of the glasses. She hands one to Nola. They clink glasses and sip the whisky.

Q’ira speaks first. “So, you’ve come to tell me how you’re going to take me all away from this?”

Nola savors the whisky, before putting her glass down. “Maybe. Or at least set you up, where you can succeed in your scumbag boss’s eyes. Something tells me what I know of Dryden Vos says he isn’t the forgiving type.”

“He’s not. Which is why I don’t think that you, even with your high-powered friends, could keep me safe. Especially on Corellia.”

Nola smiles. “My high-powered friends aren’t just on Corellia. I’ve got a few friends on other worlds. You wouldn’t go back to being a scrumrat, or back to the Silo.”

Q’ira raises an eyebrow. “Would one of those friends include that gray-haired slave who happens to be the universe’s worst gardener? The one who might work for another friend of mine?”

Nola laughs. “Yeah. He has other uses.”

Q’ira’s eyes grow distant. “Apparently the Moff likes him. I also have a vague memory of that night with him as well.”

Nola keeps her expression even. She is certain that Q’ira’s memories—indeed those of the Moff’s—may be the product of Bryne’s mystical birthright.

His spotty, mystical birthright.

 _Well, you never can tell, with Bryne,_ she thinks. _He might’ve actually spent the night screwing both of them. Or at least the Moff. He’d be much too honorable to take advantage of Q’ira._

She shakes her head, stifling the impulse to ask about the night. _Q’ira might’ve killed him at the drop of a hat, though. Or me._

“I think that I might be able to help you, if you can help me,” she says.

“How?” Q’ira asks her, her eyes calm.

Nola pats her chest, over the object under her top. “I’ve got a way to access something important in the Moff’s quarters. Something that’s pretty securely locked, so it probably holds a great deal of money, as well as the location of the slaves. You stand a better chance of getting in there, after your night.”

Q’ira takes another sip of her whisky. “Why can’t your stud get in there?”

“Well, he’s sort of AWOL from the Moff’s service. There may already be a fob out on him as an escaped slave.”

“He seems resourceful,” Q’ira observes. Her eyes are thoughtful. “But it might be easier for me,” she agrees.

Nola nods. “I’m giving you a choice, Q’ira,” she says. “You might can help me with my mission—plus help get Zygerria out of the slave business for good. Or you use that money that’s in that safe and start over.” She breathes out. “With me.”

She reaches over and takes Q’ira’s hand. “So what do you think? Do you want to come with me? Or do you want to stay with Crimson Dawn?”

Q’ira’s eyes widen at the mention of choices. She looks down, then slowly smiles. She moves closer to Nola.

“Do you need my answer right this minute? Can I give it to you in the morning?”

Nola purses her lips. After a moment, she nods tightly. “Okay. But we need to put this in motion.” She looks ruefully at the balcony and its grate. The twinge in her shoulder grows.

“I guess I have to climb down that goddamned trellis again.”

Q’ira moves even closer. She reaches up and lifts a stray strand of Nola’s hair, one that has slipped from the cap. She draws the cap off, releasing Nola’s dark bob. Nola feels her heart begin an insistent triphammer in her chest.

“I think you can stay here. The Zygerrians and the Imps are out and about.” Her hand moves down to Nola’s cheek. “Wouldn’t want you to get caught.”

Nola smiles, then reaches down and touches Q’ira’s full lips with hers. Their tongues move in tandem, in and out of each other’s mouths. Nola runs her right hand over Q’ira’s bare back. Q’ira lifts Nola’s left hand to her lips, kissing the angled finger, her eyes soft.

With her right hand, Q’ira reaches up, drawing the closure of Nola’s top down, pulling it open over Nola’s breasts. As Nola moves her lips down Q’ira’s throat, then to the tops of her breasts in the nightgown, she feels Q’ira’s left hand on the object hanging on her chest. Nola smiles as her lips move into the top of the silken nightgown. She moves a strap down from the pale shoulder. Her mouth moves down as well, to a hard tip.

She feels Q’ira’s right hand work at her belt buckle and the fastenings of her trousers. Nola works at kicking her boots off as she feels the air on her bare legs.

As she gets one boot off, she feels Q’ira’s hands switch position. The right one lifts the device from her skin, her fingers playing over Nola’s breasts.

The other sticks a cold object against Nola’s middle. Nola scrambles backwards as she realizes that it’s the muzzle of her own blaster, but trips over her own trousers, pooled around her feet. The device is now in Q’ira’s right hand, the cord snapped.

Nola prepares to die, as she realizes that the way that she had gambled to get the device into Q’ira’s hands had backfired. She is about to close her eyes, waiting for the blast to her head, where Q’ira has now lifted the weapon.

She sees Q’ira adjust the setting and fire. A blue concentric ring floats toward Nola, almost lazily.

Her last thoughts before it knocks her unconscious race, are all jumbled together.

_This job was supposed to be easy and not painful. I’m never going to live this down, especially if one of them finds me like this. At least Rae Sloane never shot me._

She hears a soft voice from above her.

“Sorry, dear. I’ve got a good deal going right now.”

Nola smiles as her vision fades. _You’re also doing what I want you to do._


	26. Retrieving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sithly influences. Or a confluence of witches.

The Moff walks into his quarters, tearing his tunic off. He’d not been able to contact either Zara or Nola in several hours. There had been reports of intruders sneaking around all over town, whether it was near where the couple of dozen ‘samples’ were held, or Atai Molec’s ‘secret’ stash of the naf additive, an entire warehouse full. 

The three GR-75 transports had arrived. His troops had told him that the crews had left the ships; no transfer had been made between the Corellians and Crimson Dawn. 

Jadhic Sander-Calanthe sits at his desk, then places his head in both of his hands, his elbows flat on the leather pad of the surface. After a moment of rest, he brings his head up. The pain spikes above his right eye. He doesn’t open his eyes, but starts to massage the pained area. He knows that when he does, he will see the glowing green mist around the edges of his vision. Just as he has over the past several weeks. 

Just as he had when he had first touched that object that his Foundling-sister and her thieving whelp had found for him. Along with another object and close to one hundred million credits of Mandalorian treasure, just lying around. 

He remembers when the young woman had first come to the household of Clan Rook’s alor. Only a toddler, barely of interest to a seven year old. Until he’d seen her eyes glow with that same green mist. A memory that hadn’t come to him at the time of the Siege, only just now. 

His memory of her becomes more active. He remembers her standing there behind his buir, her teenaged blue eyes triumphant, as the man who’d rescued him as a child, casts him out from Clan Rook.

It had been the last time he’d put beskar’gam on. 

As the green mist fades again from his mind, a couple of pairs of green eyes flash into his mind. One, a much brighter hue than the other, beguiles him as she tells him of a foolproof way of making enough money, along with the Mando treasury that remained, for him to finally retire with no fear of want in his life. Her musical accent, tinted with a hint of avarice and ruthlessness comes to his mind. 

“I stumbled across something in my father’s database. One more cache of slaves—Togruta. Able-bodied, as well as elderly and children. They’d fetch a handsome price, even in the galaxy today,” Zara had said as she lay on top of him, their bodies cooling after their exertions in the heat of the day. 

That had started this whole thing. One that had seemed to take on a life of its own, especially when Zara had arranged with someone else to bring a couple of dozen ‘samples’. Something that he’d known nothing about until one of his troopers had told him. 

He’d made sure that the Togruta had been moved. As they were, a particular individual, an extremely tall male had stared at him, his dark eyes hard. 

He looks up at a noise. He clinches his teeth as he stares at the woman standing on his balcony. The Zabrak slave that he’d saved from euthanizing and had then recruited to watch Zara. 

And had promptly disappeared from any contact. He stands up, his eyes focused on her. He realizes in his inspection that the missing left forearm that had nearly ended her, has been replaced with a mechanical version. His stomach drops as he sees the two side-handled weapons on her back. He can’t see them clearly, but they don’t look like impact weapons, but appear to have power cells. 

She smiles at him and moves into the room. In spite of his fear, he focuses more on the exposed skin in the very brief halter that she wears above tight trousers. He is about to say something, but she closes the distance and lifts her fingers to his lips. 

She follows the digits with her lips, her tongue moving across them gently, as he opens his mouth. He brings his hands up to her face. The top of his index fingers touch one of her temple horns.

His hands drop to her shoulders; they drop the thin straps of the halter. He stops, gazing at her bared skin as he stares into her eyes. 

Dark eyes that are suddenly tinted with yellow and red. He makes a sound as she pushes him down on his desk, climbing on top of him. His memory is scored by the memory of another with those eyes. 

One who has caused him to look over his shoulder at every shadow for the last seven years. Since he’d stolen from the owner of those burning eyes. He lifts his hands to push her away. 

She smiles without mirth “I bring you greetings from your Emperor, darling,” she says. “He’s interested in something that you might have in your possession. Something you might not even know you have.”

For a half instant, he feels his fear drift away, as he realizes she isn’t an agent of Maul. That feeling quickly goes away, as she lifts her right hand in the air between them. 

He realizes that he can’t speak as he feels his windpipe begin to close. 

“Let’s talk about where you keep your valuables,” she says, as his throat tightens even more. He involuntarily looks at the wooden washstand near the door. The Zabrak smiles at his glance. “Ah, darling. Thank you. The Force told me, as the Emperor said, that I would know what I was looking for. I was just a little more vague where it might be.”

His vision starts to dim. As it does, he sees his foundling sister, as he’d remembered her on Mandalore with those ratty robes. He stares at her blue eyes, just before they shift to a yellow-red and then an otherworldly green glow. 

Then to yellow-red, as her entire body and face starts to change. She lifts her left and and drops an object on the floor. He hears glass shatter, as the familiar green mist starts to rise. 

As he feels himself collapse, his sister’s entire visage changes. The vision of a woman with dark brown hair and large dark blue eyes—dressed similarly as Chraina Rook. 

The last thing he sees is a blue shaft of light igniting in the strange woman’s hand.

* * *

_Why am I asleep?_ The words cut through Nola’s brain, in spite of the fog. She can just begin to feel the electrical sensation fading from her nerve endings—maybe every nerve ending that she has in her near two-meter frame. She hears her father’s voice in her mind, one tinged with pride, from just a year ago. _You haven’t even finished growing yet, apparently._

 _No, old man. You’re just shrinking._ She curses as she pushes that incongruous thought away from her mind, trying to concentrate on the here and now. 

The hear and now with all of its pains and electrical activity. She begins to search the touch sensors in her body, rather than opening her eyes; she can see some light on the other side of her eyelids, where there’d been darkness when she’d gone to sleep. She half expects her father to come into her room and dump her and her mattress on the floor. 

Or a certain First Handmaiden, one, who like Nole’ served a young woman, Yene’ Terrin, known by her regnal name of Neyutnee. She curses out loud as she realizes that her mind is wandering again.

A slight clearing of the throat, followed by one word in a familiar, dry voice with just a hint of a drawl in it. 

“Language.”

Her eyes snap open, just as she feels cool air on a considerable amount of her skin. She stares up at Bryne Covenant, who eyes her with that damnable crooked grin on his face. A warm, loving version of it, but still with a good deal of snark. Snark and concern.

He does eye her body, but he’s seen it in various stages of undress, including connected with his own. “You might want to cover up, No-no. I brought someone with me.”

She reaches down, and with as much dignity as she can muster, pulls her trousers and underwear up, lifting her ass to finish the job. 

Bryne kneels and lifts her one errant boot, that she’d managed to remove, sliding it onto her foot. His hand moves to her chest, his fingers touching the remnants of a small cord around her neck. 

Nola looks up behind him, just to the left of his shoulder. Phygus Baldrick stands next to his ‘little brother’, Bryne, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. He shifts his vision away, covering his eyes, blushing furiously. She slowly lifts her hands and closes the curtain on the show. 

Bryne rolls his eyes. “Come on Baldrick, you keep averting your eyes when you see a pair of breasts, you’re going to have to turn in your membership card to the Coronet City Pervert’s Marching and Chowder Society.”

He helps make sure that Nola is covered, then rises. After a moment, he holds both hands down. “You know, I seem to always find you sleeping on the job, Last Word. Sometimes even with your pants around your ankles. I’m tired of carrying your ass.”

She rolls her eyes, but take both hands and allows him to pull her up. He kisses her as she reaches his head. As he does, she remembers her last few moments before unconsciousness. She blushes at some of them, but her mind focuses on another action, just before climbing up into the apartment. The push of a button on a small datapad. She starts to search herself, as Bryne and Phygus look at her. She relaxes as she finds the device, where she’d left it. In a specially made pouch around her abdomen in her top. 

Nola pulls the device out and checks it. The ‘capture’ indicator shows full and green. She hands it to Phygus, who checks it, his eyebrow raising to his hairline, before he nods. 

“Yeah, bud. I hear you. But I _do_ produce.” 

Bryne smiles and kisses her again. “Yeah. Looks like your new girlfriend has the thingy to get the thingy open. You managed to get the keys to the three freighters. Now if you could just try it without getting unconscious, or well, _dead_ , that would be swell.”

She smiles sheepishly. “Yeah. I could’ve done without the stunning, as well as the few seconds of wondering if she’s going to not switch my blaster over.” She looks at Phygus. “Good thing that I wasn’t the caretaker of our shared single brain cell at that particular moment, as Ano says.” She reaches down and gives a quick kiss to Phygus’s head as well. 

He of course still looks surreptitiously at her breasts in her slightly open top. “I hope that Q’ira is headed over to charm her way into Jadhic’s quarters,” she says as she shoots the little bastard a look.

She sees that Bryne’s eyes have gone distant. She and Phygus share a look. Both of them are familiar with this expression—Phygus from experiencing it himself, Nola just from being around others with that same look. 

The sign that he is elsewhere, through the use of a mystical partner. One that works when the spirit moves it.

He turns around and starts to leave. 

“Where are you going?” she asks. 

“To the Moff’s quarters. Feels like it could be a moot point if the Force is telling me right. Q’ira may not get out of there.” She blinks and he is gone.

She looks at Phygus. “Okay. Let’s get to the ships. Contact Ahsoka and the two assholes. We’ll have to figure out the crewing of the other ship. As well as how to get the naf loaded on there.”

“Does this mean I’m going to be subjected to your so-called piloting skills again, Seoladen?” Phygus asks, using her codename. She stares darkly at him.

Nola starts to speak when an intense warmth starts in her body. Centered around her middle. A warmth that she is very familiar with, although this has a different taste in her mind to it.

Her eyes widen at the young man with purple skin and golden hair standing in the door. Her eyes lock on his face; they don’t move to his muscled arms and form. 

She smiles as she recognizes him. “Hello, Herjen,” she says. “Your abeeyeh send you?”

His smile widens as well. “Yeah, Nola. She figured you’d need someone to drive. As well as seeing to other needs.” He opens his mouth slightly after falling silent, the tip of his tongue moving quickly over his lips.

Phygus starts to laugh at her expression. 

For once she doesn’t live up to Bryne’s nickname for her.

* * *

Dani basks in the resonance of the older woman as Irnalyn Zabrin holds her tightly, murmuring halting words of welcome in their shared language into Dani’s ear. 

After a moment, they break slightly away, gazing at each other. She becomes more aware of the others in the room. At least three of them are familiar, with only two being welcome in her memory. 

The unwelcome one stares at her for a moment, then dips his head slightly. “Moff Panteer,” she says politely.

“Major Faygan,” he replies, using her old CorSec rank—at least the new version of it. “How is your foster-sister, Ms. Vorserrie?”

Dani feels her vision flash with her eyes transitioning to the black. She calms herself as Irnalyn smiles at her and shakes her head, tightening her grip on her upper arms only slightly.

She turns her head to him and nods. “She’s fine. Much better than when self-important aristocrats try to have her killed because she refuses to breed with him.”

His own holo-star good looks flush a darker shade of bronze, as the ridiculous stylus-thin mustache twitches slightly. He turns to Irnalyn. “As long as you can assure me that this isn’t against Fondor’s good order, you can meet with this woman, Irnalyn,” he says. He gives a brief nod to Yosta Aspeff and Yelena Dao, the two more welcome of the three familiar beings.

As he exits, she releases herself from Irnalyn and walks over to both women, grandmother and granddaughter. She is swept into their shared embrace. 

She looks back at Irnalyn. “Everything’s in motion, Dani,” Irnalyn says. “We’re prepared to squeeze everyone on Zygerria, now that you’ve given us a bit more support, and a bit more exposure on what’s going on.”

Dani nods. “I’m waiting to hear from Ina and my cousin about the science of it all. Hopefully we’ll soon have a beneficial use for Zygerrian naf. One that won’t make us all feel dirty if we allow the harvesting to move forward.”

Irnalyn nods. “And I’ll control the means of production. Atai won’t dare stop me, once Shyla gets in place. We’ll see if our pet holo-idol in there will give us support with the Moff.”

“A good use for him,” Yosta says dryly. They relax even more as their shared laughter rises. 

Dani turns her attention to Yosta and Yelena, the heads of one of the most powerful Yard-families on Fondor, a family that is now firmly working with Irnalyn’s criminal organization to keep the Empire’s influence at bay. “What have you been able to find out about the possibility of the other slaves?”

“We’ve been looking at ship manifest profiles over the last six or seven years in the area around the Zygerrian sector, based on the algorithm that your slicer, Ano, and your researcher, Dala came up with. We haven’t found an uptick. But if we narrowed to the last year, we have.” Dani notices that Irnalyn is looking out at the cityscape as Yelena speaks. Dani files that for the future.

She exhales, then nods at the younger Fondorian—the one with less human blood than her grandmother. She smiles at the multicolored eyes. 

“Good to know. Send me the information. I got somebody on the ground, ready to move which way the wind blows.”

She watches Irnalyn for any reaction. There is none; she walks over and stands next to her fellow Zeltron. She folds her arms around Irnalyn’s middle, watching the busy city with her. She feels the older woman relax, slightly.


	27. The Quarry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experiments. And a lot of running around.

Dek Antilles, scion of one side of the Royal House of Alderaan, watches his opponent think. He keeps his expression even, without even a hint of snark. He takes a quick look at the Imperial credit that he holds up, his fingers moving over the engraved serial number. 

Meglann Florlin narrows her eyes at him, then shoves another couple of credit chips into the pile. She throws her own hand on the lab table in triumph. “Sabacc!” she crows. 

Next to her, Dav Kolan shakes his head. Dek gently lays his own chip down. Meglann stares at in disbelief. “An idiot’s array? What the hell?”

Without a word, but with a broad smile, Dek draws the pot and her ‘hand’ in. They’d been desultorily playing Liars’ Sabacc for the last several days, alternating with dice games and actual sabacc games, as they waited for Dek and Sina’s experiments to finish.

Well, he and Dav had spent a good deal of time pulling each other into their small room, yanking their clothes off, while Sina watched the experiments and brooded about her new normal. 

Dek looks at her and grins; she returns it. He’s pretty sure that Sina had taken Meglann to another part of the ship to engage in some more ‘healing’ activities from her world. Ones that involved dropping their own clothing on the deck. 

He tunes back in as Meglann laughs at something that Dav says. The two of them had been commiserating about being trapped on a ship with a couple of science nerds. 

Neither he nor Sina had made any comments about knuckle-dragging jet jockeys.

 _Well, not exactly in those words_ , he thinks.

Meglann and Dav both sigh, then get up, moving towards the cockpit to run their checks. Dav reaches over and kisses Dek, and says, “Thanks for winning the laundry money, babe.”

“Oh, you think you get some of this? You may have to work for it.” 

Dav stares at him, his black eyes hard, before he breaks down, laughing. He reaches over and kisses him again, this time for several moments. “I got knuckle-dragging stuff to do. Maybe I can talk the teen-aged contingent into finishing up and I’ll come back and turn you inside out.” 

Meglann rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Of course it may take the senior citizens awhile to get going. I might even have time to paint my toenails.”

Sina laughs, the first one they’d heard during the entire trip. Dek sees both Dav and Meg look at one another, their eyes knowing and worried as they move out.

“Can we do anything, Sina?” Dek asks. He gets up and moves over to where she’s perched in front of a computer screen, her amber eyes moving between two different experiments. 

He hears her sigh. Dek lifts his hands and drops them to her shoulders. He moves his thumbs to the back of her shoulders; he can feel the knots of tension beneath the warm skin, under the thin straps of her top. Without a word, she reaches up and moves the straps down, letting them rest on her upper arms. 

He begins to knead, with ever increasing force as he tries to smooth the knots out. She leans her head back against his abdomen, her eyes closing. “Just keep doing that, Doctor,” she whispers. 

“I can do more, you know. I can listen,” he replies. “You know, even though I’m self-exiled to protect them, I’ve got some influence with the Royal Family of Alderaan. They accept me, even though my father is an asshole and a political enemy.”

“Who’s your father?”

“That’s better left unsaid. My mother, the older sister of Queen Breha, fell in love with him, or at least she thought she did. She found out after she gave birth to a son what kind of a man he was. In spite of that, they took her and me back.”

“Why when he found out you were a son?” Sina asks. 

“Alderaan’s rulers are always women. He’s been looking for a way to the throne for a long time.” He realizes that he’s spoken more about this than he ever has. 

She reaches up and takes both of his hands, stopping the massage. She draws both to her lips and kisses the knuckles. “I appreciate it. But I’m married to the Zoetarch. He has to distance himself from me politically, because of the asshole I called out for corruption. It could endanger my other bond’s chances as Zoetarch in the next election. Plus possibly put said asshole in the Chair, as the new Zoetarch.”

They both fall silent. Dek places his chin on her head. He feels her smile, through the resonance—a smile without mirth. “So do you have a job in your little outlaw medical practice?” she asks.

He grins against her mostly blue hair. “Maybe. We’ll consider this an audition.”

As if on cue, the first experiment dings a soft alarm. They both look at each other, after the results. 

Dek breathes out, then sits next to the older woman. Their faces are both calm. Without a word, Sina reaches over and kisses him, allowing the kiss to linger. He smirks when they break apart. “Guess this was a successful audition,” he says.

She smiles briefly, her eyes locked on the screen. The other experiment chimes as well. 

“Two for two,” Sina says. 

“What’s up in nerd-world?” Dav asks. He and Meglann stand expectantly, both leaning on opposite sides of the bulkhead of the passageway. 

“We’ve confirmed it. The naf on Zygerria can be genetically manipulated,” Sina says. 

Dek nods. “I think there’s a lot of good we could do. But in order to help Ala, we have to figure out the other part of the compound that we found in the Serennoan archives.”

“What’s the twofer?” Meglann asks. 

“Huh? Oh,” Dek replies, “we also figured out a way to confirm that Zygerrian naf doesn’t do a thing to spice when added.”

Dek sees both pilots’ eyebrows go into their hairlines as they look at each other. “That doesn’t sound like you actually confirmed it.” Meglann says.

Neither one of them look at Dav and Meglann. They look at each other and then nod at the two pilots.

“Fair enough. But you could get into trouble for this, couldn’t you?” Dav asks.

Sina smiles, the expression not her usual pleasant one. “That one’ll be written by me. No collaboration. I might already be poison to work with, depending on how far my fellow Councilor can and will go, professionally. He has a lot of hospital endowments out there.”

Meglann walks over and pulls Sina into her arms. She looks at both scientists. “We’ve got news as well. Dani sent us some coordinates. Coordinates that she’ll meet Dav at to see if we have a line on all of those slaves.”

Dek reaches out and grabs Sina’s hand. He can see her eyes tearing. “Sounds like there may be some things to celebrate.” He stands up, and walks over to Dav, reaching over and running his tongue up one side of his throat. He grins at Dav’s expectant expression. “I say we take some time, we all get naked and we go off in our respective cabins and celebrate.” He looks at Meglann.

“Or we can all stay in one.”

Meglann blushes scarlet, but she walks over to Sina, pulling her into a tight embrace where she sits, lips touching her forehead.

* * *

Q’ira watches as a third detachment of Imperial troops of various types rush down the corridor. All of them seem to be moving with a purpose—away from the Moff’s quarters. 

Possibly even away from the Residence. She waits to hear the full pounding of boots fade into the distance, then steps out from behind the fancy column. She looks behind her, then slowly walks, without any hint of creeping, towards the flag quarters. She does keep her hand on Nola’s blaster, a small, slim pistol of a type that she’d never seen before. Her left hand is tight on the talisman she’d taken from around Nola’s neck. 

Her mind travels back to her final contact with the Corellian representative. She stops and closes her eyes, remembering the shock on Nola’s face as she’d pointed the unfamiliar weapon at her head. Shock and something else.

Hurt. Betrayal. She wonders if Nola had thought that she was going to kill her, that she was going to fire a killing bolt into the pale forehead, or between the sculpted eyebrows. She also wonders what Nola would’ve done to her, in spite of her warmth. Q’ira knows that the galaxy is a hard place—she knows it better than most. The time spent with Nola had proven to be some of the warmest that she’d ever experienced.

Even without what they were building towards before she’d stunned her. She hopes that Nola doesn’t think that her hesitation before firing had something to do with a decision about whether to kill her or not. 

She was simply trying to figure out how to switch it to stun. She’d even dropped her aim, just in case she’d gotten it wrong. She stops for a moment; she’s still another couple of corridors away from the quarters. She looks down at the weapon and examines it. She smiles; the weapon is simple, but elegant. Obviously well cared for. There are no markings on it. On a whim, she pulls out her datapad and takes a holo of it.

Q’ira shakes her head as she thinks of a the absurdity of trying to find out about a weapon that she’d stolen. The datapad dings. 

Her eyes widen at the words on the screen. An ELG-3a. Known more commonly as the Naboo Royal Blaster. The last sentence jumps off of the screen. 

_Used by the Queens of Naboo and their Royal Handmaidens._

Q’ira looks at the blaster again. As she does, she sees a short word in aurabesh, the engraving faded, as if someone had tried to scrub it. She holds it closer to her eyes. 

_Nole’._

She breathes out, then gasps as it hits her. Something that had been nagging at her since she’d met Nola. A nagging memory of seeing her before. She manages to keep from sobbing as her mind goes back to that horrible day in the Coronet spaceport. The memory of the Grindalid and the Imperial’s hands on her, as Han had pounded on the door, screaming her name. A glance backward at the crowds watching. The incongruous sight of a tall young woman, dressed in flowing, revealing attire trying to push her way past a couple of Imperial troopers, some sort of credentials in her hand. Her eyes pained as they fell on Q’ira and Han. 

Q’ira sits down heavily on her haunches, staring at the weapon. Something that seemed to be a memory of a past life. She wonders if she’ll ever see Nola again, to return it. 

She vows to take care of it, to cherish it, if she doesn’t. 

She starts, as she realizes that her life does depend on one thing, before she can take care of Nola’s weapon. She stands and starts to run towards Jadhic’s quarters. 

She slides to a stop on the marble floor as she hears noises from within. She hears voices, but they are drowned out by a loud humming sound, as if thousands of pollinators were in the room. 

She grips the blaster, then carefully opens the door. She is greeted first by the sight of Jadhic Sander-Calanthe, sprawled on his desk, his arms outstretched. She can just see his chest rising and falling. 

A Zabrak women, a great deal of her upper body exposed, swings two red energy blades, her eyes focused on her opponent, blocking and parrying. 

At nothing. 

Q’ira frantically searches the room, looking for anything that might resemble a safe. She finds nothing. 

Her eyes fall on a decanter and glasses, resting on a small, old-fashioned washstand. 

She smiles, then glances at the woman fighting with her inner demons, apparently. She moves smoothly over to the piece of furniture, not sparing a glance for the Moff. She crouches down and gives the room one last look.

She opens the wooden doors wide. Q’ira smiles as her eyes fall on the small, modern safe. The metal is featureless, except for a handle and a small square pad.

A pad that something that had been recently hanging between the breasts of a young woman with a past might activate. Q’ira reaches into her left pants pocket and pulls the device out. She studies it; she can see the small globule on the end of the oval device. She can see liquid inside, as well as the pattern of a fingerprint. 

She touches the thing to the pad. 

Nothing. Three more tries and the same result. She wonders if Nola had played her. Her eyes narrow at the device. She touches the device to the pad, then adds slight pressure. The pad gives slightly, then allows her to turn it.

There is a beep and the safe opens. She closes her eyes, breathing hard. She reaches in, hoping there’s no trap. 

Her hand closes on a small piece of metal. She pulls it out, cursing under her breath. It is a representation of a mythical-looking horned beast. The small cord wraps around her wrist. She reaches in again. 

_Sabacc!_ She pulls out the small ceramic vial. An object described in dry tones by the being known only as the Founder. She pulls it out, placing it in a padded pouch on her belt, opposite her own blaster. On a whim, she pulls the horned animal over her head, letting it settle under her top. Her eyes spy something else. 

She remembers Irnalyn’s voice. _Always keep something for yourself._

Q’ira reaches for her own chance. Her fingers touch the surface of the electronic funds chip. 

“Halt! In the name of the Emperor!”

She turns, withdrawing her hand without her prize. About ten stormtroopers stream in from the hall. Half of them open fire on the woman fighting with herself. 

All five of them fall as the woman’s two laser swords deflect the bolts back, expertly. 

The remaining five stare at her and raise their blasters. She reaches behind her and pulls Nola’s blaster with her left hand from where she’d laid it. 

“Stop—

The command is frozen as a bright gold shaft of light cuts through the middles of the troopers. They fall in various pieces to the deck. 

A large, dark-skinned male with long braids and a yellow tattoo on the bridge of his nose stands looking at her. 

Just before he swings at the Zabrak. As they engage, this time with an actual, visible opponent, on her part, at least, Q’ira makes her break. She gives one last plaintive glance at the credit chip in the safe as she makes her way out of the room. 

As she slides into the corridor, managing to keep her balance, she is nearly bowled over by the gray-haired slave. Or she is for at least a moment. When she blinks, a much younger human male, with short-cropped mixed black and brown hair, in a particular pattern, stares at her with dark blue, almost black eyes. He pushes past her, igniting a blue lightsaber, as she remembered that they were properly called.

Q’ira sighs, then pushes a button on her bangle. She transfers Nola’s blaster to her right hand, wondering if she’ll have seen anything else any stranger on this world, before she finally escapes.

With her life, for now. And her master’s bidding.


	28. All Will Be Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tempering.

Ahsoka runs behind Jillan; she manages to grab the girl’s shoulder, just before she enters the building. “Hey, hard-charger,” she says, using words from Bryne’s vocabulary. 

They apparently work. “Slow down. We’re no good to anybody if we’re dead.” She smiles at the earnest expression in the silver eyes. “First off, we need an escape plan.” She reaches under her cloak and pulls part of her belt buckle from the rest, then up and pulling part of the large chain around her neck away. She snaps them together, then looks at Jillan. “I need you to watch my back, love,” she says. 

For a moment, she thinks that Jillan is going to argue, when the thunder rises in those same earnest eyes. Jillan sighs and turns around. When her back is turned, Ahsoka casually waves her right hand. She hears a click in the lock of the door, as the device is assembled. She pushes a small stud on the side. 

“Hey, Ano. You awake? Or are you too busy vanquishing imaginary dragons or something?”

Right on cue, there is a snort. “I’m doing something more important than dealing with you. Watching the wallpaper peel on this bucket Covenant and Dani call a ship.”

“Better respect that bucket. It may get your skinny ass out of trouble, just like it’s gotten many of us out over the years.”

“Hurry up, Fulcrum,” Ano Lessi replies, her Pantoran accent sharp. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jillan turn at the new name.

“Have you gotten that other thing done, that I asked you to?”

“Of course, twit. I always deliver. If you didn’t spend so much time with Covenant and those other twits—the Chain or the Rope or whatever—kriffing you cross-eyed, you’d know that.” Ahsoka ignores Jillan’s widened eyes when she turns.

“Okay. Tell Rhayme to be ready. Hopefully he’ll recover from the surprise. You can tell Murta to get the Bucket in the air as well.”

“Anything else?”

Ahsoka sighs as the aggrieved, put-upon tone of the young woman’s voice. “Yeah. Put some caf on.”

She can almost hear the middle finger raised in an age-old Mando gesture.

She notices that Jillan’s eyes are closed. She can hear the faint pulses of her growing echolocation.

“What have you got, Rat?”

“I think Dala’s there. I can just detect her heartbeat’s signature. Away from the others.”

“You think you can find her, babe?” Ahsoka asks. 

“I don’t know. It’s hard to sort through everything.” 

Ahsoka reaches over and drops her mask for a moment. She kisses Jillan on her cheek. “I know, sweetie. But you’re doing great.”

“How come you aren’t using your skills, Tano?” Jillan asks. 

Ano answers for her in a serious voice, rather than biting. “She’s got other skills, girl. Ones that you and I may not understand, but she’s working on some other things. She’s also using everybody’s skills, trying to save the universe.”

Ahsoka knows that Ano can’t see her raised eyebrow markings. 

The door snaps open. A huge Zygerrian guard stands there, his hand going to the whip. Ahsoka grabs his hand and twists; her head rocks back from a punch with his left. She brings her knee up to the soft parts, between his legs. He chuffs with the impact, but still manages to pull her around and wrap his meaty forearm around her throat. 

She feels her vision immediately going gray. Her hands move up to his helmet, yanking it from his head. The guard screams as she twists his ears, letting go of her throat. She finds the exact point on his thick neck and squeezes. He screams again and drops. 

Jillan stares at her, then at the guard, who appears to be snoring. Ahsoka scoops up his blaster, just in time to send a bolt into the head of the stormtrooper advancing down the corridor. She begins to follow as Jillan runs past her. She scoops up the trooper’s weapon and shoves it at Jillan. The girl looks confused as they run. “Point this end at who you need to shoot, and pull the trigger. Don’t get fancy.” She shakes her head. “Don’t shoot me in the ass. Or anywhere else.”

She hears the accent from the comm. “She may not be able to tell the difference, from other parts, since you’re all ass,” Ano says. 

They slide into a room. Dala stands in the middle of the room, her hands bound behind her. The sole guard’s electrowhip is coiled around her throat and over a post above her. He is just about to activate it and pull.

Dala smiles as the guard falls, from Ahsoka’s bolt. Jillan pushes past Ahsoka and pulls the whip from her throat. She starts to fumble with the bonds, tears forming in those eyes. Ahsoka aids her a little bit with the Force. Dala embraces Jillan tightly; the Warden returns the embrace.

A germ of an idea starts to form in Ahsoka’s mind, an idea of what the girl’s future might hold as he sees the affection between them. Affection that she hadn’t noticed, with her mind on Soma Jess and Covenant. 

Dala looks at her. “Come on. I passed a room with a large number of Togruta in it. We can get them.”

“Already got,” says a deep voice at the door. Makyo Ry fills the door, a guard’s blaster in his hand. Jillan’s eyes widen as she runs over and hugs her mother’s kinsman. 

“Well, I see you got here,” Ahsoka observes. 

“Yep,” he replies. “Shyla came through for you.”

Dala stares at the pair of them in amazement. “How the hell?” she starts.

Ahsoka places her index finger next to her nose in an age-old symbol of a con. “Not everything is as it appears, Dala,” she says. “I figured we could use everybody’s avarice against them.” She looks sharply at Dala. “Especially since somebody put that pattern out so that an unrepentant do-gooder would find it and reveal themselves.”

“How did you know?” Dala asks. “The Dragon?”

Ahsoka Smirks. “Nope. Not this time. Somebody a lot shorter, but twice as scary. The first one that talked to you. The one that allowed you to use her Royal Library.”

Dala looks at the ceiling. “Breha.”

“Yep. Her intelligence service—a certain Librarian—found an inkling of the pattern. The Queen put you on it, knowing that if anyone could figure it out, it would be someone who’d lived the life of a slave and dedicated it to freeing her people.” She lifts her thumb and forefinger and thumps Dala on the forehead, gently. “She just didn’t expect you to go charging off on some damn fool quest; she thought you’d leave it to people a lot less smarter than you.”

“Loving the whole reveal thing,” another Togruta hunter says, one much shorter than Makyo and even more familiar to Ahsoka, “but things are starting to break loose. We’ve got troopers and guards heading this way.”

Ahsoka breathes out at the sight of Jedu, her mind involuntarily going back to other parts of him, from a long ago Feast of the Ironmonger. Makyo laughs at her expression. “Perhaps we can stop for a quickie for the two of you, on the way out?”

Ahsoka looks at him sourly. She follows him out of the room.

As they hit the morning light, Jillan stops, her eyes closed. She drops her blaster and snatches a long rifle from Jedu, firing almost before she brings it to her shoulder.

The bolt drills through a parapet on a far building. A stormtrooper rises, then falls, his chest smoking. 

The rifle with the attached grenade launcher falling to the street below. 

Ahsoka smiles as she sees the two dozen Togruta stare at Jillan. Their left hands go up to their foreheads, touching the various headdresses. Jillan returns their stares, then looks at Ahsoka.

Ahsoka slowly lifts her hand to her headdress, her hand held in a particular pattern. 

“The Warden is tempered,” Jedu the Ironmonger shouts. 

She sees Dala’s eyes mirroring her pride. She moves closer to Jillan and whispers into the left lekku. 

“My name is Ahsoka,” she says simply. “Guard it well.”

* * *

Bryne barely glances at the mirror as he passes it in the corridor. He knows that he would only be able to see his true face—the one that only a few people can actually see—not the one that he presents to the rest of the world, in an almost automatic function of his spotty Force sense. 

As a quirk of this particular gift—the Face Dance, he is unable to see what he morphs into, having to rely on the reactions and views of others. At least now.

Q’ira’s reaction to him, the confusion on her face, tells him that he’d at least shifted to something, if not his target. An apostate Inquisitor, who’d disappeared from the universe after the battle with the Asundrance on Felucia. Something that might be guaranteed to confuse Maris Brood, if only for a moment, especially if she’d been able to kill him in the last year.

He grunts and stops as the spike of pain digs into his skull. He bends over, hoping he can force the pain away. When he rises. Lorhena Marek stands in front of him. She is slumped against the wall; there is a bright green mist surrounding her body, just in outline. She holds a nondescript lightsaber in her right hand, its blade still ignited and pointed downward. 

Her left hand is clasped to her right side. He can see dark burn marks on her tan tunic, below the shoulder as well.

As he watches, the green mist fades, as does Lorhena Marek—the Jedi Shadow who’d tried to claim him as a padawan. He stares at the exhausted face of Soma Jess, as he’d seen in his mind, both as a Green Jedi, and as a Mandalorian fighter from the vision of his parents. 

She collapses to her knees, then looks up at him. She shakes her head, sheathing the lightsaber; its green blade sputters before it disappears. 

“Help me,” she whispers. 

“Why?” he asks. “You’ve somehow placed yourself in my mind, as well as someone’s mind who I care about. Why should I help you? Not exactly something a Jedi would do.”

“Because I have information about something that your parents were trying to set in motion. For your father’s world—really something that could’ve fought the darkness, or at least given the light a chance.” She grimaces in pain. “That’s something that you and your lover seem to prize above all else,” she finishes with a slight sneer. 

“How did you know? How did you know that she was connected to me, and therefore to whatever it is that my mother and father had before they died?”

The sneer turns into a smile. “Because as you’ve probably figured out by now, I’m not a Jedi. I’m just a trickster, like most of my clan of Nightsisters. I was able to mark those two medallions with a spell. Guess I got some on you, too.”

He waits patiently, somehow keeping from swinging his lightsaber to and fro, bringing sparks from the marble floor. He does think about doing that, though.

“I’m not a Jedi,” she repeats. “I’m barely a Force user. But that spell would warn me in the Force if I came into contact with anyone that had come into contact with the medallions. Or you, apparently.” She smirks, her blue eyes laughing through the pain. “You’ve apparently been doing a lot of _contacting_ with each other.”

“I sense something else,” he says, ignoring the humor. “Something I’ve felt before. On Felucia.”

She nods, sobering. “How do you think I was able to call up her face and body with my spell? I went to Felucia, after my second stint on Mandalore, hoping to find something that I could increase my power with. I’d heard about it in certain circles, probably the same ones she had, years ago. I barely got away with my life. I must’ve taken something of the Asundrance with me.”

“Yeah, it seems to cling to those with darkness in them,” he says. 

He starts to leave. She reaches out. “I’m dying. I’m heading off somewhere to die. A place that I actually found peace. You and yours have somehow managed to corrupt my daughter against me. She was going to steal an object from your grandfather. Something your father left with him, to be able to activate this project, if he and his wife weren’t able to with their biometrics.”

He smiles slightly, remembering a text from those who’d ‘corrupted’ Tessika. “Good to know.” He brushes past her. “I’m sorry, Chraina. I’ve got to help someone else, as well as make sure that we finish helping other people.”

He sees the bloody froth appearing at her lips. “Don’t need your help. I still have a couple of people I’ve tricked, who can take me there.” She heaves herself to her feet and manages to shove past him.

The pain is gone from his head. He can feel the same absence from Ahsoka’s brain, as the blue-orange light flares. He moves into the room. But neither of them can be sure that they’re free of her. 

He grins at the two opponents looking at him. Quinlan Vos is the only one who returns his grin, with a knowing look.

Maris Brood’s expression isn’t as welcoming. “You! Galen Marek! You cost me six months of my life!”

“Well darlin’,” he says, “you could’ve made better choices.” He moves towards her, bringing Ti’s saber up. “Guess this face worked,” he whispers to Vos as he parries a strike from the blade in her artificial hand.

“Yeah. A little too good. I’m actually here to talk to certain pissant Face-Dancer dancing into my face. Causing me to show up in places I’ve never been before.”

“Yeah, well. I wear it better than you.”

“My wife would disagree,” Quin says. He swings at Maris with the golden blade. Bryne’s heart drops as he recognizes the saber, from a time spent working with its owner. Just before Asajj Ventress had died, returning to the light.

“She hasn’t met me,” Bryne responds. He can tell that Maris hears nothing of their whispered banter. “Maybe I can show her a thing or twelve.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Vos replies. “You should know what I got, from being on a few Shadow missions with me.”

“Or not,” Bryne replies. 

“Shut up about the sizes of your cocks!” Brood screams, striking with both blades.

Quinlan looks at her as he parries. “I was talking about personality,” he says, a hint of a rueful tone in his voice.

“Me too,” Bryne replies. He drops to his knees as Maris swings at his head. He feints at her stomach, causing her to overbalance slightly.

It is enough, as he and Quinlan swing from opposite sides.

Both meeting on her left bicep, on either side of the arm. The blades passing each other in flesh, muscle, and bone. She screams as the arm drops to the floor, the durasteel artificial hand and forearm clanging as it hits the floor with the lightsaber in that hand, deactivating it.

Bryne lowers his blade, as does Quinlan. They can hear loud footsteps behind them, signaling that more Imps might be infesting the space. Without a word, the side-handled lightsaber on the floor jerks into the air, then moves into the holster across Maris Brood’s back. 

She turns and runs towards the balcony, her right hand reaching out towards the open safe, while still grasping her blade. 

A circular object on a chain flies out and drops over her head as she leaps from the balcony and is gone. Bryne runs over to the safe.

It’s empty except for one item. He closes his eyes for a second.

“Come on, Tal,” Vos says, using the name he knows. “Company.”

Bryne shakes his head as he hears energy bolts striking Quinlan’s saber. He reaches in and grabs the credit chip. Both leap through the window and off the balcony.

His mind is on what Chraina had said about the other object. One that he’s sure that Q’ira and Crimson Dawn now have.


End file.
